Chosen Twelve
by KColl2003
Summary: Twelve heroes summonsed across dimensions to save a world in its direst hour.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I'm a huge fan of the likes of Robert E. Howard, Steve Erickson, David Gemmell, and James Barclay. So this is my attempt at combining the brawny heroes, dazzling sword-fights, wicked sorcerers, and evil monsters of those sort of worlds with the Jossverse….

**Chosen Twelve (1?)**

Magoi Phasis shuffled into his quarters, the rough hem of his ankle-length robe chafing against his legs. Once he had worn far more luxurious garments and, he glanced around his modestly furnished room, had lived in far superior surroundings. And he still could if he'd been willing to pay the price. After all, others had. But no, he shook his head, he'd never bend his knee to that godless traitor.

Magoi Phasis closed and locked the creaking door, lit the lamp hanging from the low ceiling, and pulled a lump of yellow chalk from his pocket. Ignoring his bones' warning groans, he dropped onto all four and painstakingly drew a pentagram around his desk. That accomplished, he rose and cast his eyes down.

For a long second he stared at the arcane symbol, heart stuck firmly in his throat. He'd etched this symbol many times before, in good times and bad. But this time he was going on a trip from which there was no return. Only two who lived could do what he was about to do, and only one had the power to do it and live, and the one wasn't him.

A final lick of the lips and he stepped over the chalk outline.

His ears roared with the sounds of a thousand dimensions and tens of hundreds of images flashed before his eyes. It took a long moment to find and focus the dimension he needed, one he'd watched and revelled in the exploits of its champions many times.

Champions he needed to save his world.

Taking a seat, he began to mutter the arcane words that would fuel the last spell he'd ever cast. Soon magic was tugging at his body, ripping at his life-essence.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Magoi placed a note he'd written earlier in the evening on top of a small notebook detailing the champions he was summonsing. His allies would not be happy with him. They'd advised him against this course of action, saying they didn't want to lose him, but to his thinking some things were more important than mere life.

Freedom, honour, and justice came to mind.

Picking up a pencil, he began to scratch a face. It was the face of a handsome man, a man that any woman's eye would be drawn to. Its owner was a noble man who fought against the demon within him, using its dread power to defend the innocents of his world. Once his illustration was complete, he wrote the man's name beneath, first in his own lyrical language, and then in the drawing's clumsier tongue.

After carefully, reverently, placing the finished drawing aside, he started on the next piece of paper. This time he drew a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Her face was strong, fearless, but at the same time warm and compassionate. In his land she would be the princess of a thousand minstrels' tales, but in hers she was a redeemed warrior with the heart of a lioness.

"AGGGH!" An agonising wave crashed over him, red hot pokers jabbing him all over, as he finished the coal-eyed beauty's picture. Heart pounding, he leaned forward, head resting on the desk, body shaking helplessly.

After a seeming eternity the worst of the pain passed. His breath coming in wheezes, he reached a clammy hand for the next piece of paper. The next picture he drew was of a scholar like himself, but with a hint of steel in his eyes. Magoi couldn't help but wonder what massacres might have been averted, tragedies avoided, if he'd shared this learned's resolve.

Sighing slightly at what might, should have, been, he placed the finished pictures neatly in a pile. Now the three principals were completed he could draw as many of their companions as possible befo-. He doubled up, almost toppling from his seat as pain roared through him.

His vision blurred. Desperation gripped him, twisting his heart as he tried to blink his eyes clear. He had to see, without his eyes he couldn't draw.

"Thanks be," he mumbled as his eyes cleared and focussed. Taking the next blank sheet he quickly drew a red-haired pretty. Her innocent looks masked her immense magical powers, capabilities far exceeding his own. In truth her abilities frightened him, perhaps only she had the power to directly challenge his land's tyrant. But she herself fought an inner darkness as bleak as the one that now ruled over them.

The next face he drew was seemingly of another beautiful woman. But that wasn't the complete truth, far from it in fact. Once this woman had been a loyal friend to the first man she'd drawn before dying tragically and being possessed by a beast that had once ruled her home planet and dozens like it as a god. Now, she was less than she had once been, but still formidable and influenced by the 'shell' fought on the side of good.

"GAAAA!" He dropped his pencil as his body shuddered involuntarily. He grimaced as he noticed his burnt left hand. From the red-hot pain, he guessed his body was covered with such injuries.

Gamely forcing the hurt aside, he started his next drawing, this time of the red-head's partner. The lucky person was surprising not a man, but a striking woman. In his land such people were either shunned as deviants or exiled from their homes. But he cared little for such things, preferring to judge a person by their character and deeds. Yes, the girl was an arrogant wench with an unseemly swagger, but for all of that she was a mighty warrior who steadfastly believed in honour and justice. The next two females his shaking hand outlined were another red-head and a black-skinned beauty, both renowned warriors and sisters of the sword if not the blood.

Next he started on an etching of the partner of the first woman he'd drawn. This fortunate fellow was an one-eyed man with the face of a jester. From what Magoi had seen of the youth he knew that the young man's good-natured looks hid a hero's soul.

Magoi looked down at his crotch, realising he'd wet himself, his body's control slipping away from him. His being focussed on the task in front of him, he was unable to feel embarrassment and instead continued with his drawings. His next picture was of a young man, the son of the first man he'd drawn. The boy was slight but despite his lack of years and size, he too was a mighty fighter.

He moaned deep in his throat as salt-filled sweat began to roll into his burns. He felt the salty taste of blood in his mouth as a result of biting down on his bottom lip. He closed his eyes for a second, tears forming. It wouldn't be long now.

Gathering himself, he started on the next drawing. This illustration was of a lantern-jawed, powerfully-built man. He'd travelled between dimensions in the past, but perhaps this plane would remind him more of his home. Next he drew a black-skinned man, a former lover of the first woman he'd drawn and an experienced fighter.

Upon finishing the picture he found himself caught in a cleft of indecision. Who should he draw next? An officer used to leading many troops? Or a female whose exploits surpassed any of those he'd drawn but had a selfish heart and an arrogance to force herself into leadership roles beyond her capabilities and above those better suited for it?

A pain shot through his left arm. Bile rose in his throat, making it nigh on impossible for him to breathe. Realising he had no time for any more pictures he pulled a heart shaped jar out of his robe and crashed it down on the completed illustrations. The container shattered, a milky-grey liquid spilling out over the jar's shards and the papers, filling the room with a sickly, pungent stench. Magoi looked down at his drawings through teary eyes. "Please," he whispered, voice hoarse and ragged with pain, "save my people." He toppled from his chair, eyes closed in acceptance of death.

* * *

Petro Pyrgos scowled as he stormed through the forest town, people giving him a wide berth, his ill-temper increasing by the second. "Magio Phasis, where are you?" he growled. 

Once Magio Phasis hadn't been the sort to miss appointments or meetings. No, he'd been the very soul of punctuality. But then once the esteemed scholar had been the king's First Advisor, a man respected and revered throughout the realm.

And once, Perto, felt a bitter taste in his mouth, he'd been the leader of the king's bodyguard, the Honour Watch. Now they were both rebels, fighting a seemingly impossible war against the tyrant who'd butchered their friends and cast aside all they'd believed in. "The wheel turns and we have to turn with it," he muttered, the time-worn mantra sounding tired and unconvincing even as he said it. In seconds he'd arrived at the white-washed, thatch-roofed cottage that was his colleague's home. Raising a fist, he smashed it into the rough-timbered door. "Magio! Wake up, you lazy ass!"

After six knocks and accompanying bellows there was still no answer. His face now creased with worry, he slammed his shoulder into the door. The door creaked and shuddered in protest but gamely held. Teeth gritted, he shouldered the door again, forcing it open on his fourth attempt. "Yes!"

His exultation died on his lips at the sight of the corpse lying on the study. Hurrying over to the body, he crouched down and searched vainly for a pulse. "Damn fool," he grunted, watery eyes giving lie to his harsh words.

* * *

Azarel shot upright in his four-postered bed. His satin sheets fell off him as he stared around his vast bed chamber, sweat dripping off his forehead. The room was illuminated by the bronze brazier hanging from its mosaic covered ceiling. Normally the sight of the sumptuous luxury that was the imperial bedroom adorned as it was by the finest furniture and decorated by his empire's most esteemed artisans filled him with pride. Tonight though an entirely different emotion took centre-place. 

After what he'd just seen, glee at his conquests was the last thing on his mind. Thoughts racing, he stood. "Veritas Callidus!" he bellowed telepathically. "Attend me!"

In less than a minute the room's oaken double doors swung open, his adjunct hurrying in. A tall, statuesque beauty with mid-back length golden hair, her radiance marred by the coldness of her grey eyes. Her full mouth also hinted at her true nature, a natural sneer corrupting its sensuality. "Sire," the blonde bowed her head and dropped to one knee. "You called?"

"Yes." He nodded. "Magoi Phasis is dead."

"Good," the woman commented uncertainly. "He has been a thorn in your side for too long, sire."

"Yes," he impatiently agreed. "Except he sacrificed himself to cast a spell dragging twelve champions through the planes to our dimension." He looked across the room to the finely-varnished desk at the far end, quickly casting a spell. "I've placed their images on the sheets on the desk. Have those copied and passed out to my troops. There's a thousand gold sovereigns on each of their heads." He ignored his right-hand woman's raised eyebrow at the vast reward he'd posted. These people were dangerous. "The men I want dead. The women," he paused, forehead furrowed in thought. "The red-head pixie-faced one and blue-haired wench I want dead too." He shuddered inwardly at the power he'd sensed in those two, many would die before they died, but at least their threat to him would be ended. "The other four wenches," he smirked, they had power too, but not so much as to challenge him, "I want those pretties for myself."


	2. Chapter 2

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (2?)**

Faith pulled away from her kiss with a throaty laugh, kneeling upright on the perspiring man beneath her. "That's it baby," Faith cooed, her bouncing boobs partially supported by her hubby's hands as he thrust up to meet her down-swinging body. "Give it to me -."

* * *

"Now," Angel said with the patience that only someone who had lived for almost three hundred years could muster. "Do you want to explain what you were doing in O'Malley's?"

His son smiled back at him, an unabashedly innocent look in his child's eyes. "Sure. I was worried there was going to be a vampire attack on the strip joint."

"Oh." Angel leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk at the San Diego offices of Angel & Son Investigations, and his blood racing with excitement. This was different. "You had a tip?"

"Well," Connor shuffled from foot to foot, "no. But I felt protecting the girls should be a define priority."

"I agree," nodded Groo, a gullible look on his face that only the truly learning-challenged could match. "Such beauty is to be prized and defended."

"Yeah," Angel half-heartedly agreed, his eyes fixed on Connor. His head was definitely starting to throb. He couldn't help but wonder if this was how his own father had felt when dealing with him. He shuddered inwardly as he considered the possible amount of Liam in his son. Please god no. "And Groo, why did you take him?"

His son's mouth opened in another doubtlessly implausible explanation. "A strip-joint? What is this strip-joint?" demanded the fourth member of his team. "Attend me, half-breed!"

The pounding in Angel's head increased as he turned towards the persistent questioner. Reminding himself that Illyria was all he had left of Fred and that she had dragged him half-dead out of the Black Thorn mess, he forced a polite smile. "Well," he began. "It's like thi-."

* * *

"Duck!" Hearing her best friend's panicked shout, Vi dropped into the splits. The moment she hit the ground she was moving, her right leg swinging backwards to sweep her would-be attacker's legs from under him. Springing to her feet, she met the demon leap back upright with a stake to the vampire's chest and a brilliant smile. "You los-."

* * *

Kennedy looked left and right, avidly taking in Rio's many sights, its flashing colours and garishly dressed natives. Her ears pounded with the ever-present thump of the city's drums. Even in the new day's early morning, the denim wife-beater she was wearing over her black Gold Gym's vest was soaked in sweat.

Rio. No city she'd ever seen compared with it. New York, New Orleans, London, Paris, Rome, and Montreal all paled beside it.

Kennedy smirked as she realised her girl-friend was examining her with the same enthusiasm she'd been regarding the metropolis. "See something you like?" she purred through pouty lips.

Willow laughed at her playful attempt at seduction. "Enough so I can't wait to get you back to our hotel."

Kennedy's smirk widened at the red-head's declaration. This was what she loved the most about her flame-haired partner, the hidden wild side that only she knew about. "What do you suggest?" she dared.

"This." Mischief danced in Willow's emerald eyes as she grabbed Kennedy by the hand and dragged her across the busy road, towards the darkened alleyway.

And then the alleyway disappeared.

* * *

"And furthermore-."

Giles allowed Whyndham-Pryce's rantings to go over his head, something he'd developed quite a talent for over the last few years. In the four years since his ascension to the Council head he'd come to the firm decision that the organisation's quarterly meetings were worse than any possible hell. Even as he entertained himself with thoughts of what tortures he could inflict on Wesley's father, he cast a bored look around the vast boardroom and its suited occupants.

He chuckled inwardly when his gaze fell on Wood. The fellow Sunnydale survivor was one of only two true allies in the board and acknowledged his look with a theatrical roll of the eyes. "Well, what do you have to say to that, Rupert?"

Oh bugger. Giles realised in his mental wanderings, he'd fail to take even the slightest note of what the old geezer had been prattling on about. His mouth opened to stammer out some bland, non-specific comments.

* * *

"Good!" The first thing Faith realised was that they weren't in their hotel room any more. The second was they were surrounded by some friendly and some unfamiliar faces. The third was that she was naked. "SHIT!" she shrieked as she leapt off her man. "What the fuck is goin' on?"

"I've been transported to heaven," Connor responded with a dreamy look.

"Why was it," asked a powerfully-built stranger, "that we paid many dollars to watch those other girls disrobe when we could see this vision of perfection for free?"

"You got me there, Groo," Connor replied, his eyes fixed on her. "And tight with a buck too."

"Wow, you must be really cold!" Willow commented.

"What?" Faith's confusion cleared as she followed the witch's ardent gaze to her chest. "Damn it!" Cheeks flaming, Faith hurriedly covered her erect nipples with her left arm before rushing over to Kennedy. "Give me your wife-beater now!" she ordered. Whoever was responsible for this humiliation was gonna pay in pain.

"No way," Kennedy backed away, head shaking. "I'm not spoiling this view for anything!"

Faith forced a shit-eating smile. "And how are ya gonna see the goodies when your eyeballs are dangling from my ears?"

Kennedy pouted. "Gee, good to see those psychotic tendencies of yours are well under control. Fine," the other Slayer shrugged off the denim shirt and passed it over, "spoil everyone's fun."

"Thanks," Faith grunted before snatching the grudgingly proffered item of clothing and put it on. She grimaced as she realised the hastily buttoned shirt only covered her to the waist, leaving her legs and ass still bare. "Crap," she groused, "ain't long enough."

"Looks about the right length to me," Kennedy commented.

"Just perfect," agreed Willow.

Faith glanced over her shoulder, directing boiling eyes at the two unrepentantly leering lesbians. Her mouth opened in a sulphurous curse. "How about some clothes for me?"

Faith's head snapped towards the blushing man still led on the ground, his hands firmly positioned over his crotch. "Oh good lord, yes," Giles agreed, his gaze firmly averted from Xander and straight to her. Which was probably just a coincidence. "Angel, please give him your coat."

"My coat!" Angel exclaimed, his voice reaching an unmanly pitch. The vampire's anguished eyes trailed over his knee-length coat. "It's my favourite coat."

"You almost certainly have at least six exactly the same in your cupboard at home." Faith snorted at Giles' perceptive comment. Tweed-Guy wasn't wrong. "And it's either that or naked Xander."

Angel greyed. In a half-second his jacket was off and flung at the naked man. "Keep or burn it!" Angel proclaimed. "I really don't want it back after you've worn it," the demon shuddered before looking towards Giles. "Where are we?"

Faith spoke before the middle-aged Englishman had chance. "Well, we ain't on earth." Faith shook her head at the confused looks her companions shot her. Damn, they were all 'tards. "Sun." She pointed into the cloudless sky. "Vampire." She pointed at Angel. "Not dust."

"Yes." Giles peered disapprovingly at her. Which was a change from the looks she had been getting. "Thank you for the paint by numbers explanation, Faith."

Faith smiled winningly. "You know me, G. Always willing to help."

"Quite," Giles shook his head.

Faith strode over to her man as he finished putting Angel's coat on and winked. "Think all the other guys are jealous, hon?" Her grin widened at Xander's reddening face.

"But where exactly are we?" Willow pressed. "And why are we here? And how do we get home?"

"All pressing questions." Giles pursed his lips momentarily before continuing. "I'd suggest we can only begin to find answers by questioning some of the locals. To that end, I think it's prudent to find the nearest village."

"Yeah," Faith agreed with a nod. "And get my boytoy and me some clothes," she added.

Giles shot her a by now all-too familiar teasing look. "I have to say that is hardly a priority."

"I'm with Watcher-Chief on this one."

Faith shot Kennedy a smouldering glare for her interruption before turning back to the Englishman. "Says you," she complained. "Not only am I getting ogled by a bunch of pervs, my ass is getting cold too!"

"But very pleasing to ogle," replied the smirking Watcher.

Faith's mouth opened and shut several times but no sound came out. There really was no answer to that.


	3. Chapter 3

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (3?)**

Although her face was its customary expressionless mask, Veritas' heart thumped in rhythm with the click of her high heels on the corridor's stone pavings. The passageways' bleakness failed to be alleviated by the flickering bronze braziers set in the wall every twenty paces.

Not that she was worried about the starkness of her surroundings; she'd grown used to them years ago. She was far more concerned about the look in Azarel's eyes. In any other person that look would have been considered fear, but that was ridiculous, Emperor Azarel didn't feel fear, he thrust it onto others. Whoever these interlopers were they had to be formidable.

Eventually she came to a tall grey door. Opening it, she entered and hurried across an open courtyard, the night's cold air biting at her less than appropriate attire of dark blue linen tunic and matching breeches. Upon reaching a door at the far end, she pounded on it impatiently.

"Hold your bleedin' horses!" a gruff voice bellowed a response. "Give a man time to get some clobber on!" A slow minute later and the door swung open. A tall, bearded man with bushy brown eyebrows, thick beard, and matching shoulder-length hair stared down truculently at her. "Damn you, Veritas!" the thickly-built man rumbled, one hand scratching at his distended belly. "Whatever it was, couldn't it wait to the morn? It's the middle of the damn night!"

"I don't know," she stared evenly at the aging warrior, used to and unimpressed by his histrionics. "Maybe we should consult the emperor?"

The man snorted and spat on the ground between them. "Aye," he nodded. "Azarel's not prone to nightmares. What's this about?"

Veritas passed the soldier the pictures Azarel had pulled out of his mind. "The emperor wants these people hunted down immediately. All bar the top four are to be slain. Those he wants for himself."

"Aye," Malus Bellum, Warlord of the Howling Hordes, tugged thoughtfully on his beard and chuckled. "Azarel's got an eye, no doubt for that."

"Quite," Veritas agreed with a sniff. The last thing she wanted to be doing was standing out in the middle of a freezing night discussing her lord's taste in wenches. "The emperor said immediately," she pressed.

"Aye," Malus' jowly face sobered. "I'll send out messages this very night," the army commander promised. "Who else will you be taking to, Areox Lex and Decorus Mors?"

Veritas hid a grimace at the mention of the respective leaders of the Imperial secret police, The Purge, and Azarel's elite cadre of assassins, the Shadow Fang. She doubted there were two people she disliked more than the sadistic butcher and the imperious killer. "Yes," she nodded. "And to Dotos Hex too."

"The Magic Tamers as well?" Malus raised a bushy eyebrow. "By the abyss, Azarel is taking this seriously isn't he?"

"Yes," Veritas nodded, her own expressionless mask once again hiding her own reservations. "And therefore so should you."

Malus nodded curtly. "I'll bear that in mind."

* * *

Petro Pyrgos crouched over Magoi Phasis' corpse, his eyes flitting between the twisted corpse and the dog-eared journal in his hands. "I came as soon as I heard."

Petro rose and turned at the deep voice behind him. The speaker was a tall, thin man with a weathered face and sharp grey eyes that matched his immaculately combed hair. The man was only dressed in a simple linen tunic and woollen breeches, his feet rudely sandaled but he carried an air of command and stately bearing for all of that.

A shorter but far more powerfully built man stood beside the statesman, his upper torso straining to burst out of his leather hauberk. Once this man had doubtless been a handsome, square-jawed hero fit for any balladeer's tale. Now though a black patch obscured his left eye while the remaining emerald orb glinted with bitterness. A jagged scar ran across the man's lantern jaw, pulling his bottom lip permanently down, while another twisted wound ran down from his left eye to his neck.

"Earl Fortis," he bowed at his waist at the first man, the leader of their rebellion before glancing at the disfigured warrior. "Probus," he greeted Fortis' bodyguard and the former leader of the Vowed Knights.

"Petro," the noble nodded at him before stepping around him. The lines on the aristocrat's face deepened as he stared down at the corpse. "It's true then," the rebel leader croaked. "I had hoped-," Fortis shook his head before turning to him. "I see from the damage it wasn't an assassin?"

Petro swallowed inwardly at the tight note in his leader's voice. "No sir," he shook his head. "It seems that the mage cast the Dimension-Summonsing spell."

The noble's eyes shadowed. "Damn fool!" Fortis growled. "I told him it was too much of a bloody risk! And now the damn fool's-," the noble shook his head. "To the void with him!"

Petro didn't dare comment on his lord's rage although he understood it. The rebels had other mages in their ranks, but not one of them approached Phasis' power. His death was a potential hammer blow to the revolt.

Deciding to attempt administering a balm to his leader's anger, he offered the book he'd been reading to the noble. "This is an account of the people that were brought here by the spell. If even half of what Phasis recorded is true, they are mighty heroes."

"Uh." His words were rewarded with an unenthusiastic grunt. The noble's long fingers wrapped themselves around the journal. "Both of you," the earl's penetrating gaze swung from him to Probus and back again. "Get out."

"Yes sir," Petro inclined his head before following Probus in marching out of the cottage.

* * *

Fortis let out a rattling sigh as the door crashed shut behind the departing warriors. "Damn you, Magi," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the corpse at his feet. He imagined the two soldiers thought his reaction was fuelled by anger at the mage's fatal actions. That was part of it, but at the moment his mind was filled with the memories of the children he and Magoi, 'Magi', had once been. "How many must I lose?" he muttered, chest tightening.

He forced his gaze away from the corpse and to the drawings of the summonsed lying innocently on the desk. "I just hope it was worth it, old friend," he muttered.

* * *

"Is she awake?" Mate Dane asked as he ducked his head into the low cavern, grateful to be in from the unceasing downpour, his drenched fur cloak sticking to him.

"Yes, Chief Dane," whispered the jowly woman who served as nurse to his most valued asset. "She's awake."

"Praise be," his mumble echoed through the tight, dank passageway. Eyes squinting in the darkness. He trudged the now-familiar route through the tunnels leading to his goal.

Eventually he came to a small cavern, barely illuminated via what little sunlight stole in through a crack in its low roof. But then the person who called the cave home couldn't bear the light, not any more. Dane nodded at the two burly men hovering in the shadows to the back of the chamber, their hands resting on the shafts of the battle-axes shoved in their belts. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he noted that the men wore differing clan kilts. Two rival clansmen, sharing an honoured duty would have been unheard of before their conquering. Azarel bringing them together, who'd have thought it?

Except for the Snapping Otter clan, his mood dipped, no one would ever work with them again.

He turned his attention to the trembling figure sat huddled on the ground. The person was female, but you'd never have guessed that if you didn't know her personally. The woman's skeletal frame was clothed in a muddy-brown smock that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years. Her filthy blonde hair obscured her face and hung down past her waist. Dane's breath caught, chest constricting as he remembered the proud, almost regal, woman the quivering crone had once been. "Greetings, Condrad."

"Greetings, warrior," the woman didn't look up from her inspection of the pock-marked ground.

Dane sighed. Condrad Orth had once been his people's most powerful bonecaster, their strongest mage, in several centuries. As leader of The Watching Circle she'd called the fourteen clans' mages together when the Howling Hordes had invaded.

Azarel and his cadre of magic-users had torn through the Circles' defences. The attack had left Condrad a torn wreck, in constant agony and no longer capable of controlling magic. But she was perhaps fortunate. Dozens of her fellow bonecasters had died instantly, others had been driven insane, some had been mutated into monsters, and a number had aged 40 – 50 years in a single day. Such was the wrath of the emperor to those who opposed him.

Dane swallowed his pity. He knew full well that even in her wretched condition Condrad would not appreciate it. "You sent word that you wanted to speak to me?"

"Aye," Condrad looked up, giving him a glimpse of the intelligence burning in her eyes and her yellow, rotting teeth. "Last night there was a disturbance in the magic stream. A mighty force for good has been drawn into our dimension. A force capable of facing Azarel."

"Aye?" Dane's blood quickened at the prediction but was careful not to get drawn in. The past few years had been too full of setbacks to easily allow hope to prosper. "An army capable of standing against the emperor?"

"Nay," the bonecaster's body contorted, her face tightening as pain shot through her. The bonecaster didn't speak for almost a minute, the cavern echoing to her breathless pants. "Sorry chief," Condrad apologised, "someti-."

"No apologies needed," Dane rumbled. "I know the sacrifices you have made for us. Please, continue when you're able."

"Thank you." The haggard woman nodded gratefully. "The force isn't an army. I doubt even Azarel himself could manage to drag an army through the dimensions." He winced as Condrad descended into a fit of coughs, blood dribbling down her chin. The witch wiped her face clean before continuing with a shake of her head. "No, I sensed that around twelve warriors came through before the spell failed."

"Twelve?" Mate snorted. "Azarel will barely notice when he squashes them underfoot."

"Fool man!" Condrad scolded. "These people cannot be judged by numbers alone, these are heroes born!"

"Aye," Mate was less than convinced. "Well if we ever needed heroes it is now."

* * *

"Are you going to The Sheathed Sword after our shift is over?"

"Yeah, I've got an eye on that new serving wench."

"Yeah," the first man chuckled, "she's a lusty one isn't she?"

Ka' Tra's knuckles whitened as he watched the two night watchmen saunter past, oblivious to him watching in the shadows. It would be so easy for him to glide out of the darkness and cut their throats. He'd done it countless times since his homeland had been conquered, but he had other business tonight.

He waited until the two sentries had moved on before stalking soundlessly out of the shadows and heading in the opposite direction. His eyes moved constantly, missing nothing as he searched every nook and cranny for anyone foolish enough to attempt an ambush on the foremost Ishanti Blade-Lord of his generation. His nose wrinkled at the stench of the refuse littering the once orderly streets. How far his people had fallen in so short a time.

Finally he reached his destination, a nondescript house in what once had been one of the city's merchant districts. When he knocked on the house's door he was careful to knock in a precise rhythm, three fast, two slow, and one fast, knowing full well that any deviation would result in the springing of numerous traps.

He'd barely finished the code when a peephole swung open. "Password!" demanded a pair of suspicious green eyes.

"The crescent moon rises in the east," he replied.

The peephole slammed shut. A half-second later and Ka' Tra heard the sounds of bolts being pulled back and chains being rattled loose. The door creaked half-open. "Enter."

Ka' Tra slid through the slight gap and into a comfortable-looking hall, its walls an inoffensive orange. "I'm here for the seer."

"Upstairs," the short man finished locking the door before nodding towards the threadbare carpeted stairs.

Ka 'Tra strode up the stairs, his feet so light that the steps forewent their usual protesting creak. After a cursory nod at the two Blade-Warriors posted on the narrow landing, he ducked through the door opposite.

The room was sparsely-furnished, with only a bed, chair, and desk of the most basic quality. But then it was a lot more than many Ishanti had these days.

"Seer," Ka 'Tra nodded at the man sat in the chair. The seer was a short, scrawny man almost entirely bald save for a few last stubborn wisps. His green eyes were rheumy and his entire personality lacked any force whatsoever. And yet the fates had made him the most powerful remaining Ishanti mage, those stronger than having already been culled. "You have news."

"Yes," even the man's voice, like his personality, was muted. Ka 'Tra had to strain to hear him. "Last night a great force for good arrived in this dimension."

"Yes?" Ka 'Tra crouched before the old man, blood quickening. "And where did this force arrive?"

The seer hesitated before replying. "In Parhea."

Ka 'Tra's heart dropped. Not one of the client nations or even the Free Trade Alliance but the very imperial seat itself. "Dead before they know it," he pronounced the likely sentence.


	4. 4

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (4?)**

To a big city girl like Faith the village beneath them seemed especially small. There were perhaps thirty thatched-roof cottages in addition to another half a dozen buildings. A timbered wall encircled the tiny hamlet but Faith reckoned that it wouldn't be much of a deterrent to a determined attacker.

Faith shivered and looked up at the darkening sky. It would be night soon and then she'd be even colder than she was now. Getting more clothes was becoming an even greater priority. Faith looked from her inspection of the village and to the Watcher crouched to her left. "Jesus, G," she complained. "Haven't you seen enough of my butt already? What are we waiting for? Let's get down there already!"

The Englishman shot her an amused look from his position behind an oak tree. "It's not as simple as that," Giles replied. "We don't know if they're friendly or unfriendly. Or even if they're human. We're visitors in a strange land. We have to tread carefully."

Caution, caution, Faith's eyes rolled. She couldn't help but wonder how a hellcat like her ended up with such a bunch of safety-firsts. "Someone's coming," Angel muttered.

Faith looked over her shoulder and through the thick bush behind. "Shit," Faith muttered as her eyes centred on the slight figure skipping down the dirt track heading to the village, "cat's got worst fashion sense than you, X."

The newcomer wore a green beret that tried and failed to restrain the mop of white hair springing from under it. The man's face was unlined, his emerald eyes shone with a youthful vigour, and his full mouth was parted in a smile that Faith just knew would make many women weak at the knees. The man's gaily-coloured jacket was a patchwork effort made up of half a dozen colours haphazardly sown together as were his baggy britches.

"Ah, that is a turn for the better."

Faith glanced towards G, confused by the Englishman's rapt expression. "You like his clothes?" Xander incredulously whispered.

"Oh yes," Giles sniffed. "And you have so much room to criticise. No," the Watcher shook his head. "The man's a minstrel!"

"Oh?" Angel looked towards the middle-aged man. "And how do you know that?"

"First of all, his dress sense. He's far more gaudily clothed than one would expect for a rural peasant. He's a showman. Second," the Englishman paused, "there's a flute out of the top of the knapsack over his right shoulder."

"So he's a minstrel," Rona put in as the oblivious man pranced past their position. "Big whup. How does that help us?"

"Oh dear," Giles let out one of his long-suffering sighs. "Angel, tell me you at least know?"

After a furrowed moment the vampire spoke. "In medieval Europe, minstrels were story-tellers, entertainers. They travelled from town to town, spreading news. If anyone would know what was going on it would be a minstrel. He'd be perfect to fill in the blanks."

"Man's like an undead Discovery Channel," Xander scoffed.

"Thank you," Giles nodded at Angel. "The only question is how to -."

Tiring of the conversation, Faith rose. "Leave it to me," she replied before starting through the undergrowth.

If ya wanted something doing, best to do it yourself.

* * *

Osus Fabula whistled as he bounded down the dirt track, eyes fixed on the small village ahead. He'd lay his head on a soft pillow tonight, not like the last three nights using his knapsack to rest his head on.

But then he shouldn't complain. His calling meant that he got to travel, always seeking a new experience, a new adventure. And he didn't suffer the same boringly repetitive trudge of the farmer or the labourer. No, his was a life of wine, women, and song.

"Help me."

Osus turned at the hauntingly husky voice behind him, eyes widening at the bewitching sight that greeted him.

A doe-eyed beauty was knelt on the path, chestnut locks hanging down to her shoulders. Her blue short-sleeved tunic clung to her body, emphasising her sensual curves. Osus' eyes widened still further as he realised the young woman was unclothed from the waist down, long, smooth legs enticingly bare.

"Such brazenness," Osus muttered, eyes fixed avidly on the full-bodied lovely. Osus smiled roguishly, confident that his practiced charm would ensure he would soon have a soft body to warm the night. Squaring his shoulders, he strutted over to the knelt girl. "Now lass," he soothed. "I'm sure there's naught that I can't help you with. Tell me what you need?"

He was stuck by the luminousness of the beauty's pool-like eyes when she looked up at him. By heck, but she was a sight to savour. The brunette's cupid-shaped lips parted in a smirk. "Go to sleep." His mouth opened in a bemused question. Before he could speak the girl had surged to her feet, her fist upercutting into his jaw.

* * *

"Easy as falling off a log," Faith gloated as she caught the unconscious man as he plummeted to the ground.

"Bloody hell, Faith," she looked up to see Giles leading the others down the hill they'd been hiding on. "Subtlety is not your friend is it?"

"You wanted a minstrel," Faith eased the knocked out bard to the ground before opening his knapsack and starting to go through it. "I got ya a minstrel."

"Pilfering, Faith? Are there no depths you won't sink to?"

"I dated you Nottingham, of course not." Faith responded to the sneer in her ex's voice. "Gotcha!" she bounded upright, rainbow pants in hand and started to put them on.

"Oh, Faith, I really don't think they're you," Kennedy commented.

Faith glanced over and winked at the younger Slayer. "Real obvious, Ken."

"She has a point, though."

"Ah, baby," Faith looked over her shoulder and blew her husband a kiss. "Don't you see enough of me, naked?" she cooed with a flutter of her eyelashes.

"Not even close," Xander replied.

"I think I'm going to hurl," Angel said.

"Me too," grunted Wood.

"Yes, very amusing," Giles' tone was filled with its familiar exasperation. "Now let's get him," the Watcher looked towards the knocked out balladeer, "off the road before he awakens or someone passes by." Giles looked towards her. "We wouldn't want to bruise Faith's knuckles from over-exertion."

* * *

Osus' eyes fluttered uncertainly open. His vision cleared to reveal a dozen or so people stood around him. His mouth opened in a terrified scream.

A handsome man had a hand over his mouth before he had chance to utter a syllable. "Don't be alarmed," the tall stranger cautioned. "We're not going to hurt you. All we want is some information." Osus' eyes swivelled towards the chestnut-haired lovely who'd knocked him out and was even now wearing his spare trousers. The man shrugged as he released his grip over Osus' mouth. "And your pants."

"I look better in them anyhow," drawled the curvy beauty.

"You looked better without them," commented the youngest man.

"And without my top," added the second brunette with a nod. "It's really not you."

The pants-stealer glared at both her admirers, mouth opening. A distinguished-looking man spoke before the brunette beauty had chance, his cultured tones revealing his scholarly background. "As my companion explained we're strangers in your land and would appreciate some assistance finding our feet."

"Um," Osus stared down, bemused by the query, "they're on the end of your legs."

"Sorry, it's a saying from where we come from." The scholar coloured at his companions' sniggers. "Oh do belt up, it wasn't that funny. I meant where are we?"

Osus stared at the man. What remote land had these people come from not to have heard of The Unchained Empire? Finally he spoke. "You are in Parhea."

"And who rules this land?" queried a tall, shaven-head black.

Osus sighed at the question. This was the tragedy of their land, their world, a tale that pained him to tell. But it seemed he had little option. "For generations we were ruled by the Manregents, a benevolent and wise family. But ten years ago, High King Olvan, Queen Duclis, and Olvan's younger brother, Prince Primus, were all murdered by agents working for the king's youngest brother, Azarel."

"There's a name to make you go all fuzzy inside," commented an one-eyed man.

Use to far more raucous interruptions, Osus continued unabated. "That same night, 'The Reign Of Fang' as it became known, Azarel's agents attacked the great and the good of the empire. Marshal Timo, our foremost general, Sapi Noblis, the head of the Vowed Knights, the three Border Barons, and most of the royal court were butchered. Petro Pyrgos, the head of the king's bodyguard, Magoi Phasis, the king's First Advisor, and Earl Fortis Andres, head of the nobles' council all escaped and now lead what resistance there is."

Osus grimaced, heart tightening as he continued. "Parhea is a very different country to what it once was. The Purge is everywhere -."

"The Purge?" asked the handsome man who'd muffled his initial attempt at screaming.

"The imperial secret police," he explained. "They ruthlessly hunt down anyone who dares opposes Azarel, executing all dissidents. Where once the sighting of a Parhean soldier would fill a peasant with a sense of security, now they inflame fear. But worse are the Cursed-."

"The Cursed?" asked One-Eye.

"The creatures of the Great Betrayer." Osus spat out the name of the Ascendant who'd murdered his fellow higher beings. "Goblins, Trolls, Ogres, and Gargoyles. Foul beasts that prey on humans, elves, dwarves, and griffins alike. Once we hunted and harried them, now they are allowed to flourish, even serving in the army."

"Ogres, elves, dwarves?" the curvy pants-stealer shook her head. "This shit sounds like The Lord Of The Rings."

"I'm surprised you've read the book," sniffed the educated man.

The beauty's coal-black orbs widened. "They wrote a book about the film?"

"They wrote a -," the greying man shook his head before turning back to him, an exasperated look on his face. "I bloody give up. Please, continue sir bard?"

"Once Emperor Azarel had tightened his grip on Parhea, he began invading our neighbours. The Highlands fell eight years ago, betrayed by one of their own chieftains. The Ishanti Houses, Hybora, and the other lands all fell in quick order. Azarel's deviousness, sorcery, and the strength and ferocity of the Howling Hordes carried all before him. The only place that remains free is The Unified Trade Alliance, and they only remain so because an ocean separates us, and Azarel has yet to finish his fleet."

A long silence followed his words. "But there is a resistance?" The handsome man asked.

"Yes," he nodded. "The Shem Battle-Master, Jabari Aren has sworn a Blood-Oath against Azarel for killing his Emir. He's twice failed to kill him, but on both occasions has escaped with his life. The Keenest Blade, the world's most renowned mercenary company, a force that a thousand stories have been written about, harry the Howling Hordes. Those who survived 'The Reign Of Fang' attempt to resist Azarel here, in the imperial heart."

"You seem remarkably well informed to a simple bard," commented the scholar.

Osus smiled and nodded. "I was an apprentice bard at the royal court, my position gained through being the third son of a minor lord. My blood makes me an outlaw. I find it somehow comforting to know what is going on."

"Why did you ask about the resistance?" the brunette who'd entrapped him asked, her eyes fixed on the good-looking man.

"Because they need help," the man replied.

"This isn't our fight," objected the second brunette.

"No, Kennedy," One-Eye shook his head. "Deadboy's right for once. It's the white-hats against the black-hats. It's always our fight."


	5. Chapter 5

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (5?)**

"Okay then," Faith shook her head. She skipped dimensions, trouble still followed her. Faith chuckled reluctantly. She wouldn't have it any other way. "We're kicking the bad guys' asses, I'm down with that. Problem is, how in the hell do we find the rebs?"

"They're already looking for us," Willow said.

Faith looked towards Red. "Say what?"

"Who do you think brought us here?"

"Of course." Angel nodded. "It makes perfect sense, Will-," her mentor paused, brow creased in thought. "Willow, magic this powerful will draw the attention of every mage worth his salt, right?"

"Yes," Willow stopped in mid-nod, mouth opening in dismay. "Oh."

"Oh, what?" Kennedy asked a micro-second before she could.

"If I'm correct Angel is surmising that Azarel will already be aware we're here," Giles interjected.

"So we're massively out-numbered, in a strange land, and we don't even have the advantage of surprise? Oh man, life really, really sucks!" Xander complained.

Faith shook her head. That was bad, but had more immediate worries. "We should get to the nearest town, get some clothes so we can blend in. 'Sides," she shifted uncomfortably, scratching at her butt. "These pants feel like they've got lice."

"I do not!" protested the bard.

"Take them off," Kennedy suggested.

"And how do you suggest we pay for these clothes?" asked Giles, the Englishman looked perplexed. "We have neither any local currency nor any idea where the nearest decent-sized town is. We can't go down into the village now; a group of our number and dressed in this manner will only draw notice of possibly imperial eyes."

Faith grimaced. G had a point. "Perhaps," their kidnap victim raised a tentative hand, "I can help with both problems? In exchange for being allowed to join your intrepid company?"

"We tend to live dangerously," Angel warned.

"Not 'arf," Faith's ears picked up Giles' muttering before the Watcher raised his voice. "Why would you want to join us?"

"I tire of reciting the tales of heroes I've never met!" The balladeer's eyes gleamed with excitement. "I want to experience the adventures!"

"Guy's challenged," Faith grunted.

"Very well," Giles stared at the minstrel. "I suspect having a guide will be useful. How do you suggest we proceed?"

"Three miles west of here lies a trade road between Maldor and Rittum," the minstrel explained. "If we wait there, some merchant will pass by for you to rob."

"I'm not real comfortable with that," objected Willow, her face troubled. Faith shook her head, this was where morals got ya.

"No, no, no." Faith snorted when Osus bowed at the waist. "These days it is a crime to use sanctioned trade routes unless licensed by the empire. Any one who travels the approved trade routes is approved by a confidante of the emperor himself or a member of the Imperium."

"Oh," Willow nodded. "I guess that's okay."

"Glad we all agree. What about getting some -," Faith grimaced as her stomach growled, "food. I'm starved."

Angel looked up into the clear blue sky. "I smell a herd of goats near-by."

"So?" Xander's eye widened and filled with realisation. "Goats? We're gonna have to eat goat!"

Faith smirked, her own reservations dissipating about their upcoming meal at Xander's reaction. "What did you expect?" she needled. "Twinkies?"

"Would be nice," Xander muttered.

* * *

Giles looked left and right. The spot they'd picked was just about perfect for an ambush. The track ran through a shallow valley, ensuring that the merchant convoy could be boxed in. "Just perfect," he muttered.

"Could I run the trap?"

Giles glanced at the vampire, hesitating. As much as he disdained the demon's presence, the Irish vampire was the most experienced warrior by some margin. "Of course," he nodded.

"Thank you," the demon looked around. "Rona, could you take up a position to the north of the valley a thousand metres away. If you see a caravan coming, rush back and tell me. I'll be a hundred metres from the north mouth. Vi," the vampire looked towards the strawberry-haired Slayer. "I want you a thousand metres from the South. If you see anything run back and tell Illyria who'll be a hundred metres from the mouth." The undead Irishman looked towards Faith. "You and Kennedy go and lie on the far side of the valley and come down when the caravan arrives. If the caravan enters from the north, Illyria will confront it. From the south, I will."

"Sure, Fang," Faith winked at the lesbian Slayer. "Married woman here, ya keep your hands to yourself, get me?"

"But how will we pass the time?" Kennedy joked.

"At least take some pho-," Connor coloured when both Slayers and Xander glared at him. "Never mind. Forget I spoke."

Angel chuckled before looking towards Connor and Groo. "You two come down from this side."

"What about us?"

Angel looked towards Xander. "We haven't got any weapons, Xander. I know Faith's taught you to fight with or without weapons, but there's limits to what an ordinary mortal can do against a trained, armed enemy. It's safer to leave this one to the super-powered."

Eyes alight with outrage, Xander's mouth opened. "He's right, X," Faith said, a rare note of softness in the sultry Bostonian's voice, "for me?" After a second the one-eyed man nodded sullenly. "Thanks, hon."

Angel turned towards him. "Anything to add, Giles?"

"Just one thing," Giles looked towards Osus. "Will there be any of these 'Cursed' accompanying the caravan?"

"No," the bard shook his head. "They're too unstable to be trusted on long, possibly uneventful missions, there's a fear they might turn on their human companions."

"Good," Angel nodded. "That simplifies things. Everyone get in position."

* * *

"Are you and Xander okay?"

Faith looked at her fellow Slayer with eyebrow raised. "For the last time you are not getting into my pants. Even these revolting ones."

Kennedy smirked. "Got tickets on yourself ain't you? Gotta admit I liked the view, but no," the rich Slayer shook her head. "I worry about you and Xander." Faith looked at her fellow supernatural warrior through narrowed eyes. Kennedy shrugged. "Xander saved my life. And you, you're my friend."

"Your friend?" Faith stared at Kennedy. Xand and Angel aside she'd never had any friends. As a kid all the other parents had forbidden their children to play with the daughter of the local junkie ho. When she'd started showing, guys had been interested all right, getting her on her back, while other girls had only been jealous. And do she'd hardened, getting used to being on her own, taking fleeting pleasure and attention where she could.

Finally she found her tongue and glanced across the valley. "Red might have a problem with us being friends."

"Willow doesn't pick my friends for me," Kennedy tartly replied. "Besides maybe if you gave her a chance you could be friends too?"

"Yeah," Faith was less than convinced. Somehow she figured B's spectre would sabotage that relationship before it begun. "How's Red doing with the whole power loss thing?"

Kennedy's face tightened. After the mass Calling, Red's power had been seriously curtailed, some sort of backlash or draining. "Giles says she's still the most powerful witch in the world, just not by a factor of ten anymore."

"Right," Faith nodded. "How's she handling that?"

Kennedy shrugged. "Mixed bag. She doesn't miss the responsibility, but sometimes she gets frustrated. Illyria used to be a lot more powerful too didn't she?"

"Oh yeah," Faith nodded. "Way Fang tells it she could have taken all those ubers out on her own."

"So what happened?"

"According to Angel a human's body ain't built to take an Old One's power so she started to break down, she would have exploded taking California and most of the west coast with her. So Wes," Faith's breath caught as she remembered her Watcher.

They had both written one another off. Him thinking she was an irresponsible brat and her thinking he was an uptight incompetent. The hell of it was they'd both been right, but they'd changed, and she had hoped one day they could be friends. And now that was never gonna happen.

"You okay, Faith?"

She shook herself before shooting her fellow Slayer an apologetic glance. "Sorry, lost in the past," she explained. "Wes did some mojo that lessened her strength enough so the human body could hold it."

"Right." The two of them waited in companionable silence for almost an hour. Then Illyria rushed through the valley to where Angel was stood and then back. "They're comin'."

"Looks like it," Faith agreed, her eyes fixed on the passageway below. In a few minutes they felt the thud of multiple hooves thumping on the ground. A couple of minutes later and the train entered the valley. "Shit."

The caravan was only made up of four small wagons but had a hell of a lot of guards, three foot soldiers marching at the front and back, and six flanking on either side. All wearing gleaming swords. Faith grimaced. "This could get interesting," Kennedy muttered.

Suddenly Angel dropped from a tree at the far exit to land beside the lead horse which he promptly left hooked in the jaw. The horse crumpled to the ground.

"That's Angel," Faith shook her head as she rose and charged down the shallow slope. "Always the drama queen."

The soldiers noticed them when they were halfway down the hill, turning to stare slack-jawed at the curvy beauties charging them. Then military discipline asserted itself and the men started to draw their swords, blades hissing out of their scabbards.

Faith reached the first swordsman, a short, stocky man while his sword was only half-unsheathed. Her fist caught him full in the mouth, sending blood and teeth flying, and the soldier plummeting to the ground.

She leaned back at the waist, avoiding a downward slash from a dusky-skinned six footer with a weight-lifter's build, before straightening as he tried to bring his sword back up and butting him in the face. Bone crunched under the impact of her attack but to his credit her opponent still managed a slash at her neck. Faith slid under the attack before grabbing the swordsman's legs behind his knees and pulling. The man roared in shock before crashing to the grass.

Sensing an attacker sneaking up on from behind, Faith dropped forward onto her palms and hand sprung up, bringing her knees into her stomach in one smooth, rapid motion. Kicking out with all the strength she could muster, her heels crashed into her would-be attacker's chest, her ears ringing to the sound of cracking bone.

Rising sinuously, she kicked the dusky-skinned man in the face as he struggled to his knees, knocking him out. Faith looked left and right. She smirked at what she saw. All the soldiers were out cold and none of her companions were injured.

"You can't do this!" She turned to see a bemused-looking Illyria being harangued by a jowly, oil-haired merchant dress in a revolting purple robe. "The emperor won't stand for this!"

"Oh boy," Faith muttered. "This can't end well."

"You and your emperor are nothing to me," Illyria sneered before back-handing the merchant across the face. The blow lifted the merchant off his feet and sent him cart-wheeling into the air, landing in a heap some twenty metres away.

"Hey!" Faith looked up to see her man climbing out of the second wagon. "We've hit the jackpot! This wagon's stuffed full of clothes!"

"Finally," Faith looked disdainfully at her pants. "No more looking like Coco the clown."

"We change and then we head for the nearest town," Giles announced.

"There's a red dress here that's just you, Faith," Angel commented from one of the wagon.

Faith rolled her eyes. So not funny. "Only if you try it first, Fang."


	6. Chapter 6

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (6?)**

"Come in, come in." The two men he'd summonsed hurried into his quarters, both dropping to one knee. "Please, get up," he gestured impatiently even as he studied his guests. An accident of birth had given him a high station in life but it had never been his way to lord it over others who earned his respect by their actions.

And these two warriors certainly did. The first was a towering giant of a man with the thick limbs to match. His face seemed almost hewn from granite and his grey eyes from flint.

The second had a build to match his companion but was far shorter, standing just a few inches over five feet tall. The man was one-eyed, his left covered by a patch while his green eye gleamed with sourness and his square-jawed face was hideously scarred.

Petro Pygros, the former head of the Honour Guard, and Probus Patronus, the deputy leader of the Vowed Knights. Apart from him the only two of the old inner circle who now survived. And two steadfast warriors who felt their honour had been stained by the overthrowing of their sworn monarch.

On balance he couldn't hope for two more loyal, more trustworthy, allies.

"You called my lord?" Probus enquired.

"Indeed I did," he agreed. "The mystics have used the notes on the Twelve by Magoi to attempt to track them. It appears that two of the heroes," if nothing else the notes confirmed they were that, "in particular have unique essences. The ones called," he briefly checked his notes to ensure he was right, "Angel and Illyria are not completely human. As a result the mages have been able to track the pair to Rittum. We can only assume the others are with them."

"Then you'll be wanting us to go after them," Petro half-rose.

"No," he stilled the former Honour Guard commander with a shake of the head. "Your faces are far too recognisable to risk sending into an imperial stronghold. I want you to recommend two men to send in there to contact them."

Petro and Probus stared at one another for a long moment, muttering under their breath as they discussed who best to send. Then Probus looked towards him. "Torvas Lamina and Tachy Marcello."

Fortis pursed his lips together. He knew both suggested warriors by reputation. Before the usurping, Lamina had been a Master-Sergeant in The Watching Steel, an elite legion guarding the highlands border against northern reavers. Marcello had been a rising star in the Fleet Swords, the army's cavalry arm, and rumoured under consideration as a potential Vowed-Knight. Both were hardy, capable men, but there was a problem. "Marcello is a tad flamboyant for such a sensitive assignment."

Probus scowled. Ever since his disfigurement the former Vowed-Knight had become ultra-sensitive to the slightest criticism. "Lamina and Marcello are two of our most experienced remaining soldiers. They've both led infiltration missions against imperial targets."

"So be it," Fortis conceded. "Have them brought here." His two subordinates nodded before leaving.

The two men who interrupted his musings some time later were a study in contrasts. One was short, with a thick, bear-like body, almost completely bald with a squashed face and cold, unyielding grey eyes. The second was tall, slender, with a full head of wavy black hair, aquiline features, and expressive brown eyes.

"Lamina, Marcello," he nodded at each man in turn before glancing at the stools at the other side of his desk, "sit." Once the two men were sat he started to talk, discussing their mission.

Marcello was first to speak, his cultured tones revealing his noble origins. "You say we have to get to Ritum as soon as possible but it's a week's ride away. They'll be long gone."

"No," Fortis shook his head. "You'll each be given four of our finest horses. Ride them to death, but make it in half the time."

&&&

The mid-day sun beat down relentlessly on the city, resting as it did against a winding, snaking river. Grand ships and huge barges clogged the river and filled-to-bursting granaries and busy ports sprawled along both riverbanks. Rittum's streets seemed to be laid out in a precise grid within its forbidding stone walls. The grey walls made a perfect square, with one side pressed against the speedy river. In each corner of the city wall stood a tower that reached for the cloudless sky, while several sturdy turrets, spaced 200 metres apart, were dotted along each wall. The gentle winds of summer fluttered the silk banners attached to its tower spires proclaiming Emperor Azarel's rule.

Inside the tall walls a chaotic orchestra of noise blared out, a raucous bustle that engulfed the entire city. Hawkers crying their wares and shopkeepers' raised voices competed in the din to draw people to examine the vast assortment of goods displayed on their tables. High born ladies clad in expensive silks walked through the teeming city streets, escorted by their ever-watchful bodyguards, they cast their arrogant eyes over the tables and chose the goods they deigned to purchase. Cheeky apprentices wearing grease-stained aprons risked their masters' fury by stopping in their duties to bandy flirtations with chaste, bashful girls hawking baskets of assorted fruits and flowers. Ragged beggars, always stinking and usually infirm, squatted on every cracked pavement corner, their filthy palms outstretched as they beseeched passer-bys for money. Doxies selling their bodies as merchants sold their goods strutted through the city clad in daring, revealing clothes that showed their alluring contours. In front of each of the city's inns there stood either musicians playing their instruments or bards telling tales of legend to draw prospective customers inside.

Faith's eyes darted left and right, eating up the many sights. At this moment, Wood, G, and Red were busy questioning the bard about the local situation while the rest of them had split up to get some varying supplies for the trip ahead. "Damn, X!" she exclaimed. "This is some trip!"

"Yeah," her hubby was rather more restrained. But that was her man all over. For all the others might think Xander charged in foolishly, Caleb had it right. X was the one who saw. Especially, her eyes narrowed as she noted just where her husband's gaze was.

"Stop looking at her, X. And if you think I'm gonna wear that you've," Faith stopped as she heard a sound coming from a refuse-strewn alley. "Ya hear that?" Without waiting for an answer, she started into the alley, confident that her man would have her back.

Her lip curled up in disdain when she reached the alley's far end to find a tall, weathered dude attempting to fight off a quartet of soldiers, one corpse lying at the oldster's feet, and a crumpled girl behind him.

All this she saw in a second. Three of the soldiers turned to face her and X, the fourth concentrating on the aging swordsman. "By the void," leered one of the Hordesmen, a brutish toad-looking man, "we've hit the jackpot here. A noble child to get a bonus and this pretty to play with." Faith chuckled inwardly. Like she hadn't heard this song before. The guard glanced at his companions. "I'll deal with one-eye. You lads take that sword off her, but make sure you don't mark her too much."

&&&

Toad-Face charged at Xander, short sword jabbing at his face. Xander swayed away from the attack, slapping the blade away with the palm of his hand.

The bloated man smirked before slashing at his throat, Xander parried the blow and retaliated with a downward slash at his rival's head. Eyes wide, the man scurried backwards. "You know how to use that weapon," the guard commented.

Xander bared his teeth in a grin. "You have no idea." He'd been trained by one of his world's three finest sword-fighters and had honed his skill against opponents far quicker and stronger than his current rival. The Hordesman didn't stand a chance.

The soldier parried a sideways slash before countering with a thrust at Xander's heart that he nimbly sidestepped. The soldier screamed when Xander caught him with a slash at his left leg, slicing his thigh open. Toad-Face looked down incredulously as Xander dragged his blade free, viscera dripping from it. The soldier rallied with a desperate upwards thrust that Xander calmly parried before slashing across the crippled warrior's neck, blood fountaining out of the gory wound.

Xander looked down at the headless corpse at his feet, a sick feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. He'd killed many humans in the years since becoming Faith's Watcher, in-bred Kentuckian cannibals, a shape-shifting witch, a mage dealing in child-smuggling, and Dark Council members. But each time he got a queasy feeling in his belly and he kinda hoped he always would.

Remembering his wife, he glanced across to see Faith standing over the downed soldiers.

&&&

Bellator Proelium stepped over the second downed Hordesman, mouth gaping at what he'd just watched unfold. He'd seen female warriors before, some real doughty lasses, but the loose-limbed beauty before him was something completely different, stronger, faster, and more skilled than any warrior, male or female, he'd seen in his eventful life. And her one-eyed companion was no slouch either. "Thank you for your assistance," he bowed slightly at the waist. "There are few who would dare to face the Howling Hordes."

The young beauty winked at him, sending a tremor through his heart, a smirk twisting her sensual lips. "Shit, they ain't nothing but pussies next to the things we've dealt with. You handle yourself pretty good for an old-timer." The raven-tressed temptress' luminous eyes narrowed as she peered past him. "Is she okay?"

Bellator spun around, chagrined at having forgotten his charge. In two strides he was by the girl lying crumpled by the house wall. His eyes closed in grim acceptance as he tried and failed to find a pulse. "Oh, Shana."

"Is she-."

"She's dead," he confirmed. Eyes fixed on the corpse, he rose, bones seeming to creak like they'd never creaked before. "She cracked her skull when she fell."

&&&

"I'm sorry. Was she your daughter?" Xander asked as he examined the swordsman they'd rescued.

He was a tall man with a frame that once had probably been packed with muscle but the passing of decades had left his physique lean and stretched. The man's ponytail and bushy beard were peppered with grey, his eyes a calm brown, and his square jawed-face etched with lines. A scar ran across his forehead and another ran from his left ear down to his throat. It was definitely a warrior's face. The man's outfit of battle-nocked leather hauberk, rusted bronze skull cap, calf-skin breeches tucked into riding boots, and gleaming short sword only confirmed that opinion.

After a second the weathered warrior turned to face them, his face haggard with loss. "Daughter," the greyed swordsman shook his head. "Nay, lad. Just my failed attempt at debt repayment."

Xander exchanged a puzzled look with his wife before turning back to the older man. Everything about this world was nuts. His mouth opened in a question. "Nay," the man interrupted him with a shake of the head. "Not here. Being caught in an alley with five Howling Hordes corpses would be unwise."

"Makes sense," Xander nodded before following the older man, a watchful Faith stalking at the rear.

The aging warrior led them through a winding passageway that spilled out onto a busy marketplace, the air filled with the shouts of hawkers competing for the patrons' custom and the smells from a dozen food, herbal, and perfume stalls mingling together. "I'm Bellator Proelium," the weathered swordsman introduced himself. "I'm Parhean by birth, and spent seven years as a Fleet Sword, but owing to a misunderstanding with a duke's daughter," Faith snorted, "I've spent much of my life abroad. I spent the best part of fifteen years serving with The Keenest Blade," Xander glanced at the man. Osus had told them a few stories about the renowned mercenary company on the journey to Ritum. If Bellator had been a member of them, he was a dangerous man. "I fought in the Ishanti House Feuds, the Hyboran Duchy Conflicts, The Free Trade Guild War, and the Shem Blood-Soaked Uprising. But I got sick of the constant wars, and left to spend five years working as a caravan captain in the southern nations. After that, I returned home to take up a position training soldiers for a minor noble. Ten years ago, Azarel," the warrior's face shadowed, "murdered Olvan and the noble cull began. I fled with the girl when her parent's manor house was raided, her father's last command that I protect her. And for ten years I have, loved her like a daughter. Then tonight, either I or my charge was recognised, and now she's dead." The aging soldier paled, stumbled, and would have fallen but for Faith grabbing his elbow.

"Look," Faith said, his wife's pool-like eyes filling with compassion. "Our tavern's just a couple of streets away. Come with us."

"Thank you dear," Bellator managed a wan smile. "Beautiful, brave, and caring. Your young man would have competition if I was but ten years younger."

Faith snorted before throwing him a wink. "Try twenty, hon." The warrior chuckled.

Xander forced a smile. He loved the caring side of his wife, but inviting this stranger to join them was more than a little risky. But there was no arguing with his woman.

&&&

The interior of the inn was lit by half a dozen brightly-burning rush torches stuck in crude iron holdings upon the inn's drab, bare stone walls. The smell of half-burnt meat, poor quality wine, and stale sweat hung unpleasantly in the air of the large common room. In the far corner, a bard told a tale of high heroics, his rich voice competing with the drunken babble of the tavern's occupants seated around the inn's tables, their eyes concentrated either on the bard or their drinks before them. The tavern's patrons consisted mostly of men dressed in the rough woollen tunics of farm workers or craftsmen, except for a few scantily clothed hos plying their trade.

"Pint of ale," Faith ordered. G and the others were busy questioning Bellator up in their hired rooms, so bored, she'd sneaked off to the bar.

"Yes miss," the bartender, a tall, thin man with ferrety eyes and a hooked nose, hurried away.

"'Tis a regular shame that pretty thing like you'se is on her own."

Faith rolled her eyes at the slurred voice behind her. She turned her head and smiled politely at the unshaven, forty-something drunk stood leering at her. Did he seriously think he had a chance with her? "Thanks but I ain't alone."

"Ah," the man's mouth parted in a gap-toothed leer, "you're alone -, owww!"

The man shrieked as he hit his knees, her hand lunging out to grab the hand reaching to paw her, and squeezing until she felt bones grind under her touch. "Word to the wise, no means no." Faith released her grip. "Now get."

Eyes wide with disbelief, the man rose and scurried back into the shadows. "Y…your drink, miss."

Faith turned to face the grey-faced bartender, dropping a silver coin on the dusty bar surface. "Thanks."

She'd barely taken a sip when she heard another unfamiliar but far cultured voice. "Hello, Faith."

Faith rolled her eyes before turning to face the speaker, Jesus were the men around here all backward? Her mouth opened in a warning. A hand landed on the stranger's shoulder. A half-second later the man was spinning around and crumpling under the dual impact of a headbutt to the nose and knee to the groin. Faith stared at the unconscious stranger for a second before looking up at the attacker. "Jesus, X. Jealous much?"

Her husband looked at her. "He knew your name."

Realisation hit like a tidal wave. "Ah fuck." Faith downed her pint in a single gulp. "We best get the others and run."

&&&

"Owww," Tachy Marcello awoke to a thudding headache to find Torvas Lamina crouched over him as he laid on the tavern floor, an amused look on his companion's usually dour face.

"Your mouth get you into trouble again?"

"The one called Xander butted me." Tachy glared. "I've never seen you smile before."

Torvas' smile widened. "I've never seen you with a broken nose before."


	7. Chapter 7

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (7/?)**

Veritas Callidus looked up at a knock on her study's door. "Enter."

The door creaked obediently open. The tall man who limped in was thin with an undertaker's cavernous face, and long, gnarled fingers. "Adjunct."

Veritas nodded shortly, hiding the disdain she felt for her guest behind a blandly polite mask. Of all her rivals for power and the emperor's favour, the chief of The Purge was the most dangerous; in addition to the one she loathed the most. "Chief Lex," she replied. "And how goes the hunt?"

Something of a distant, repellent, relative to a smile slithered across the enforcer's face. "There are but a dozen of these visitors. In contrast there are perhaps thousands in the resistance, thousands of elves and dwarves, and many priests of the old religions to be hunted down. Why are these paltry twelve so important?"

"If you think the emperor is in error perhaps you should raise the matter with our esteemed ruler yourself?"

Veritas felt a frisson of amusement when the Purge's head paled at her softly-spoken suggestion. "I did not mean to question our lord," the man smoothly replied. "Merely expressing puzzlement."

Veritas' patience with the oily snake ran out. "I never had you for the gossipy type, Areox."

The spy smiled. "No. I've had an interesting report from Rittum. Five Hordesmen have turned up dead. No reports of who or what did it."

"And you think these deaths are related to the strangers?"

Areox shrugged. "Any rebel attacks are either usually outside of the towns or assassinations of major imperial figures in the towns. Five dead in an alley doesn't fit any pattern, especially without the loss of at least one accompanying rebel."

"And what do you want to do?"

The spy chief's answer came instantly. "Flood the place with agents, lean on any informant in the city, and increase the garrison, stopping everyone going in and out."

Veritas considered the suggestion. "They might well have already left."

"More than likely," the spy shrugged. "But we might shake loose some information about them and where they have headed."

Veritas nodded slowly. "That makes sense. Do what you need."

* * *

"A demon made of stone?" The experienced mercenary shook his head. "Truly you are a warrior of renown!"

Faith shrugged, embarrassed and unused to the praise. "I didn't beat it. Truth is it pretty much kicked my ass."

"But you survived," Bellator scolded. "That is a warrior's most important task. To survive!"

"Your man means a lot doesn't he?" Faith smiled softly and nodded. X was her world. "That's good, Faith. When I was your age, I was always looking for the thrill of the next battle, the next conquest to bed, and the next country to explore." The weathered solider sighed. "But I had never the wisdom to undertake a far greater adventure. That of love." The greyed warrior smiled sadly. "That lad adores you, girl. Treasure his affection."

Faith glanced over her shoulder to where X was riding with Ken and Red. "I will," she promised.

"Good," the aging swordsman chuckled before shooting her a look. "Of course if you change your mind, I hope you will consider a distinguished looking older man."

"Nah," Faith shook her head. "G ain't my type."

Bellator's mouth opened and shut. Eventually he barked a laugh. "Ha! Perhaps you're right, a spirited lass like you would only drive me to my grave."

"But what a way to go, right?" Faith smirked.

"Indeed my de-," the man's face tightened and his voice trailed off. "Angel!"

The vampire's head snapped around. "I've seen it!" the demon called from his position at the front of their party.

Faith's brow furrowed as she looked left and right. "Seen what?" she demanded.

Her suddenly grave-faced companion pointed up into the sky. "That."

Faith's stomach hollowed as she saw several trails of smoke billowing up into the sunny sky. "What's that?" she breathed.

"Fires," Bellator growled, the man's face hardened. "Raiders or worse, come on!"

* * *

"Good lord," Giles admitted to more than a little queasiness as he surveyed the carnage before them. They'd followed the smoke to a plain beside a bubbling stream. The picturesque scene was ruined by the fifty or so bodies heaped around it, their life-blood coppering the grass beneath their corpses. Wagons had been over-turned and smashed, men, women, and children ruthlessly butchered. Death's foul stench hung heavy in the air, inter-mingling with the smoke from several burning wagons.

An ashen-faced Faith had taken the other three Slayers to 'secure the perimeter', although he suspected the poor child had just wanted to distance herself from the massacre. Not that he blamed her, Slayer or not there were some things his inner chauvinist thought no woman should ever see. Xander was leading the others in a feverish search for survivors although Angel had said it was fruitless.

Right now he hated the damned vampire and his heightened senses more than any time in the past. "They didn't even fight," he murmured.

"They couldn't," Giles turned to the grey-faced bard stood beside him. The minstrel shook his head. "These were 'Wanderers Of The Way', a cult who believe that a life of non-violence is the only way to achieve heaven."

"Lambs frolicking in a field of wolves," Giles swallowed bile. "Who would do this, bandits?"

"Nay," Osus shook his head. "Bandits rarely attack Wanderers' caravans, a combination of superstition and the Wanderers' custom of carrying little of material worth. The only enemies they have are the Cursed or the Howling Hordes." Giles looked towards the bard, seeking clarification. "Since taking the throne Azarel has decreed that he is the one true god and that followers of other 'false' gods should be hunted down, their temples and monasteries pulled down."

"It was the Hordes," Giles looked towards Bellator crouched by a corpse. The soldier's steady eyes met his. "None of the victims have been mauled in any way and tracks leading into the area are too disciplined for the Cursed."

"I see." Giles stared bleakly ahead. It was ironic really, scenes like the one before him made him doubt the existence of one god, much less full pantheons of the buggers. On any other day, he might even laugh.

* * *

"I have a report for you, Earl."

Fortis looked up at the quavering voice. In his doorway's study there stood a silver-haired, line-faced woman hunched over a walking stick, her green eyes gleaming with an intensity that belied her greatly advanced years. "Zauber!" Fortis greeted as he leapt to his feet and helped the hobbling ancient to his recently vacated seat. "If you had news, you should have sent a runner to get me."

"Nonsense, Fortis," the old woman scolded with all the ferocity he'd come to expect from the woman who with the death of Magoi was now their most powerful mage. "Your men have more important tasks than to act as errand-runners for me. Besides I could do with the exercise, it stops the old bones from seizing up."

"As you wish," he conceded with a nod. He knew full well there was little point arguing with his strong-willed childhood tutor. "Your news, then?"

"Aye," the witch chuckled. "Travos reported in via his communication crystal. It appears he, and more specifically Tachy, have made contact with our guests."

"Excellent!" Fortis enthused.

"Excellent?" the old witch shook her head. "Unfortunately Tachy's approach resulted in him being knocked out and the strangers fleeing."

"By the abyss," Fortis grunted. If not for bad luck they'd have no luck at all.

"I worry about these strangers that Magoi summonsed here," the elderly witch admitted. "The boy had great power." Fortis allowed himself a secret smile. Only Zauber would refer to a man past fifty as 'boy'. "But sometimes he could be reckless."

"These people have power," Fortis replied.

"Aye," the lines on Zabuer's forehead deepened. "That's what worries me."

* * *

"They're closing!"

"I know!" Aguda cursed as he looked over his shoulder to see the two score Clear-Bloods gaining on them. If not for his injured horse they'd have easily out-stripped their pursuers. As it was, the racists were gaining by the minute. "Leave me! You can escape on your own!"

"Never!" Elga screamed, his lover's beautiful face contorted in rage.

"We came together, we'll die together!" added Valentine.

Giles stared down at the trio being chased by about forty horsemen and women. From their vantage point atop of a wooded hill, he judged the race could only end one way.

"By the abyss!"

Tearing his eyes away from the pursuit, Giles glanced at the pale-faced bard. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"The fleeing trio are elves, the others, those in red capes with a human face embroidered on it, are Clear-Bloods, a group who regard non-humans as inferior, and hunt down any and all non-humans and kill them."

"Inferior? Unclean?" Rona's voice was a low growl. "That sounds really familiar."

Even as he opened his mouth to counsel caution, Faith spoke. "I'm with you, Ron. Let's go!" In a half-second, the four Slayers and Angel's group were galloping down the hill.

Giles threw his head back even as he dug his heels into his horse and drew his sword. "Leader?" he groused. "That's a bloody joke!"

* * *

Thanks to her upbringing, Kennedy had a familiarity with horses that none of her fellow Slayers had. As a result, she reached the Clear-Bloods several seconds before her fellow female warriors. Her ears filling with the raucous din of charging horses, Kennedy charged in.

Lips parted in a snarl, a Clear-Blood swung his blade at her. Kennedy ducked the attack, grabbed the hunter's wrist and wrenched him from his saddle at the same time slicing through the stirrups of another at the other side, the action spilling the surprised woman from her horse.

Seeing another Clear-Blood galloping towards her from the left, Kennedy pulled her foot out of the stirrup and kicked out. The Clear-Blood's mouth opened in a scream that was lost in the battle's clamour when her foot smashed into his knee, trapping it between her super-powered foot and the stallion's muscled flank. The bone imploded and the paling man pitched forward, vomit spraying from his mouth.

Some instinct caused her twist to her upper body to her right, sword flashing up to block a sword-slash aimed at decapitating her. She saw the shock in her opponent's angular face as she shot a left hook into his hooked nose. She felt the bone crack and saw blood spew out, splattering the warrior's tunic as he pitched backwards off his horse.

Kennedy looked around. The Clear-Bloods were retreating, the force of her and her friends' attack routing them. Kenendy looked down at the broken-nosed man lying crumpled on the ground and sneered. "Lightweight." Digging her heels in, she pulled her horse around and followed the others off the battlefield, victorious again.

* * *

"Owwww!" Odium bellowed as pain roared through his nose as it was re-set.

"Sorry."

Odium thought Invidia, a tall, slender blonde with swaying hips, full lips, and sly grey eyes, wasn't sorry at all. As his deputy Invidia would be eyeing any chance to show him as weak, to undermine his position.

Not that she was his most immediate concern. For over a decade he'd led the Parhean chapter of the Clear-Bloods, exterminating the non-humans, making the world a better place. And the only thing he hated more than the 'unclean' was the human traitors who aided them. And now one had dared lay a hand on him.

Well the black-eyed bitch would pay. When he'd finished with her she'd beg for death.


	8. Chapter 8

**FIC: Chosen 12 (8/?)**

"What are they again, Pops?" Faith queried, eyes fixed on the bedraggled trio they'd just saved.

"Elves." Faith shook her head at Bellator's reply, unable to believe the evidence of her own eyes. A fairytale legend alive before her.

The two males were tall with silver, shoulder-length hair, and slanted golden eyes. Their sharp features were almost frightening in their perfect symmetry. The woman accompanying them was short with waist-length tawny hair and sparkling but cold emerald eyes. Her feline features were complemented by her pointed ears and while the males had athletically muscled physiques hers was a curves in the all right places body.

"Thank you for your assistance," the tallest of the elves bowed slightly at the waist, his voice soft and lilting, and his eyes fixed on G. "I'm Prince Aguda Flecha. Your help was greatly appreciated."

Even as the royal spoke, the other male stared at her like she was a succulent snack. She'd been looked at like by guys for closing on ten years and didn't like it much so she returned the elf's stare with a cold eyed one of her own. If the guy didn't get the hint he'd be taking a visit to the woodshed.

* * *

Valentine Hermano stared with lecherous interest at the lithe-limbed, chocolate-eyed beauty. Minutes earlier they'd been riding to their deaths. And then a group of super-warriors had turned up and thoroughly trounced the Clear-Bloods while at the same time delivering his next conquest straight to him.

The oldest of the humans, a grizzled warrior whose scarred face was testament to decades spent in warfare, spoke. "Prince Aguda? I am Bellator Proelium," the experienced soldier bowed his head slightly. "A pleasure and an honour to meet you sir. I understand you are a senior member of the elven resistance?" Before his best friend had chance to speak, the human continued. "We ourselves are looking for the human resistance, perhaps you could help?"

Valentine tore his eyes away from the beauty and to his best friend, noting his fellow elf's troubled expression. "If you'd give us a minute?"

"Of course, your majesty," interjected the second oldest of the humans. "Take all the time you need."

"Thank you, most gracious," Aguda nodded politely before looking towards him and Elga. "Please, come with me." The three of them backed out of hearing distance before his prince spoke again. "What do you think?"

"They are great fighters," he commented. "They could be a boon to us."

"Great fighters?" Elga snorted, nose flaring. "And it wouldn't be anything to do with your fascination," Aguda's lover made the word 'fascination' sound dirty, "for human women?"

Valentine chuckled. "I see one," he smiled, "well more than one who interests me." His smile widened as Elga's sneer deepened. "But," he sobered, "we have also seen them fight." He shook his head. "They outnumber us more than 4 to 1. At least six of their number could force us to tell them what they wanted to without any assistance from their companions."

"Lechery and cowardice?" Elga sniffed. "Are there no depths that you won't sink to?"

Valentine's mouth opened in a stinging rebuke. "Peace," Aguda interrupted, a hard note in his close friend's voice. "You two bicker like children," the prince reproved before shaking his head. "Valentine is right, they are mighty warriors and would be a great asset to the rebellion."

"Or a great threat," Elga pointed out.

"Perhaps," Aguda shrugged. "But I remember the name of Bellator Proelium."

"Aye," Valentine blurted out. "They called him 'Slice-Hand' didn't they?"

"That they did," Aguda agreed. "He was one of the many legends who rode with the Keenest Blade, even commanding one of their companies. Such a man would never serve Azarel."

"We don't know if he really is Proelium," Elga pointed out. "And even if he is, we've been disappointed by our human allies before."

"No," Aguda shook his head. "I've decided. It's a gamble I'm willing to take."

"Aye," Elga looked towards their rescuers. "I just hope you haven't damned us all."

* * *

"What are they saying?"

Angel hid a smile at Faith's edgy demand. Somehow he thought learning patience would be a step too far in his friend's rehabilitation. "They've reached a decision," he reported. "The two men have decided that they want to take us to the rebels," albeit for wildly differing reasons he had no intention of revealing for fear that Faith geld the poor guy, "the woman is less trusting but has been out-voted."

"Ah," Giles beamed. "Finally we're getting somewhere."

"And maybe," Willow added. "We'll meet the witch who brought us here."

"Oh," Angel shuddered at the light in Faith's eyes as she cracked her knuckles, "I'm so looking forward to that meeting."

Giles stared levelly at the former renegade Slayer before turning to the two Parheans who'd attached themselves to their party. "I thank you both for your assistance, but it appears we have guides to take us to our goal. I would understand if you'd like to take your leave."

"Nay," Bellator shook his head, eyes glinting. "I have it in me to experience one last adventure."

After a second, Osus also shook his head. "I'd like to stay also. I have a thirst for recording the story that is to unfold."

"The Council with a press agent? We're doomed," Xander muttered.

"Just as long as he doesn't record anything as bad as 'The Ballad Of John & Yoko." Angel smiled as his companions turned to him, their faces incredulous. "What? I can tell jokes too."

"Not about the Beatles, you bloody can't," Giles huffed.

* * *

"Hail! We wish to share your camp!"

As he spoke Finn Cormac inspected the lone man crouched by the crackling fire. He was a tall, powerfully-built man with ebony skin that glinted in the wake of his fire. The foreigner's tightly-woven braids hung on his broad shoulders. Scars adorned the man's broad forehead, his nose squashed flat by repeated breakings, and his stern grey eyes and square jaw hinted at his implacability.

That the stranger was a warrior was beyond question. Despite the night's warmth, the man was wearing a waist-long cape over a leather scaled hauberk over a chain-mailed shirt, and woollen breeches tucked into riding boots. His outfit was completed by a broadsword and humongous battle-axe resting by his feet.

The warrior's mouth parted in a smile that failed to reach his eyes. "Aye," he boomed, his voice deep and rich. "By all means."

Finn felt a chill run up his spine at the giant Shem's smile. He glanced at his quintet of companions, his confidence returning at their proximity. They were Hordesmen, they took what they pleased. "Thank you, friend."

* * *

"My pleasure, " Jabari Aren replied, eyes fixed on the six Hordesmen. The moment the first of his people's oppressors clambered off his horse, he moved.

Hands blurring to his weapons, he snatched them up and he rushed forward. His sword flashed up diagonally, slicing across the nearest man's throat.

Blood showered him as the decapitated man pitched forward. His people's war cry bubbled out of his lips. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a Hordesman charging him from the left.

He dropped into a crouch. His sword flashed upwards and across his body, ripping through the Hordesman's tunic, burying itself deep in the onrushing man's gut.

"Ahhh!" Blood spilled out of the man's stomach, staining his blade. Not bothering to try and withdraw his blade, Aren rose and lunged forward, axe in hand. Back-steps were not his people's way, always forward.

Blocking a sword slash on his left elbow-length steel gauntlet, he hacked at an attacker to his right. The bulging-eyed Hordesman blocked his attack on a shield that cracked under the blow's impact before retaliating with a thrust at his heart. Aren slapped the blade down before stepping into the man, putting him between the other three Hordesman, and smashing his forehead into the warrior's face.

Crimson fountained out of the Hordesman's face. Even as the opposing warrior stumbled backwards, Jabari cleaved his skull in two with his axe. Snatching up the man's sword as it fell to the ground, Jabari spun to face the remaining trio, smiling briefly at their ashen faces before charging. The one to his left raised his blade and tried with a downward swing that he blocked on his sword. His opponent grimaced as the impact of his parry reverberated through him.

Before the man had chance to attack again, Jabari counter-attacked with a feinted swing at his left hip. Desperation flooding his eyes, the man brought his shield down in a block. The moment the Hordesman committed, Jabari thrust over the shield and into the man's heart at the same time ducking away from a slash at his head from another man.

Jabari's right foot lashed out, cracking into his would-be attacker's inner knee. "Gaa!" the man roared his pain as his knee shattered under the impact, tendons and ligaments likewise tearing.

"For the Fallen!" Jabari bellowed as he leapt over the crippled man to land beside the last Hordesman. Teeth bared in a panicked snarl, the warrior thudded his buckler into Jabari's forehead.

Blood dripping down his forehead, Jabari dropped to one knee. He saw his opponent smirk and bring his sword up for a downward swing. Jabari thrust his borrowed blade up, sliding it into the man's groin. Even as the man's eyes widened with the sickening realisation of death, Jabari twisted and yanked the blade out.

A smile on his face, Jabari rose and turned to the last Hordesman, the one with the shattered knee. Grabbing the man by his collar, he flipped him onto his back. "M….mercy," sobbed the warrior.

"Aye," Jabari nodded, mind filled with images of his homeland's cities burning. "The same mercy you showed Shem." His blade sliced down, ripping through the man's throat.

* * *

Veritas' heart thumped as it always did when answering the emperor's telepathic call. The trouble was she never knew what sort of mood she'd find her mercurial master in. The anticipation was sometimes worse than the mood. But unfortunately only sometimes.

Reaching an oval-shaped wooden door, she knocked. "Enter."

After a lick of her lips, she walked into the throne room. The throne room was a vast chamber, its stone walls covered in paintings skilfully depicting the emperor's many victories. The emperor himself was sat on a bejewelled throne stood on a raised platform.

As always a chill ran through her at her first sight of the imperial ruler. The man was abnormally tall, so tall that one could think that there was Highlander blood running through his veins except for his almost skeletal frame clothed in an ankle-length, blood-red robe.

And his face was the thing of nightmares. Greyish skin was stretched across an angular, sharp-featured face while his dark blue eyes burnt with unquenchable, chilling power.

Remembering herself, Veritas dropped to one knee and directed her gaze to the ground. "Sire, you called?"

"Yes," she heard the creak of the throne as her master rose. "I did. How is the search for the intruders progressing?" Veritas' stomach hollowed. "Veritas?"

She licked her lips. "We are making progress-."

"PROGRESS!" She screamed as pain like she'd never felt before crashed into her, twisting, ripping at her insides, lashing at her body. "PROGRESS!" In the distance she could hear her emperor screaming. "ARE YOU NOT THE IMPERIAL WILL? I GAVE YOU THIS POSITION BECAUSE OF YOUR COMPETANCE! DO NOT FAIL ME NOW!"

"Ahhh!" Veritas gasped and slumped forward when the pain left her body as suddenly as it had arrived. Chest heaving and sweat-drenched frame shaking helplessly, it was several seconds before she could speak. "Yes sire," she gasped. "I'll get them."

She was dimly aware of the emperor patting her head like she was a favourite pet. "See that you do."

* * *

Odium Populo strode around the busy encampment, eyes darting left and right, nostrils of his recently broken nose flaring painfully. "How long! How long!" the man raged, spittle flying from his mouth.

Invidia hid a smirk at her leader's fury. It had been amusing to watch her leader's humiliation, but more than a little worrying the ease with which they'd been routed. Their opposition had definitely been something more than human and as such had to be exterminated to purify the world for the chosen.

"I'm talking to you!"

She realised with a start that her leader was stood before her, eyes filled with an unquenchable rage. "I'm sorry, sir." Invidia carefully hid her disdain. Odium was a slow-witted fool, but he was also a vicious bastard with an explosive temper. "I was making plans, thinking how best to catch up with the infidels."

She was relieved when her chief's mottled face returned to something resembling its usual colour. "And how long do you think until we're ready to leave?"

"Not long, sir," she soothed. "We should have three hundred warriors ready to ride soon."

"Good," Odium nodded. "And then we'll kill them all." Her superior's face twisted in a sneer. "Except that black-eyed bitch who shattered my nose. I want her alive. At least for a few days."

Invidia barely resisted the urge to shudder. The woman might be unclean, but she didn't deserve what Odium was going to do to her.

* * *

Travos strode through the smoky inn to his companion waiting at a rough-hewn table to the back. His fellow rebel half-rose at his approach, eyes impatient. "Well?"

He nodded at Tachy's enquiry. "According to the inn-keep, a group matching our quarry's general description passed through here yesterday. Only-," he paused.

"Only what?" Tachy pressed.

"It appears that the strangers, if it was them, have added a trio of elves and two locals to their party."

"If it is them?" Tachy raised an immaculately coiffured eyebrow. "And if it is them then you've noticed they're heading straight for our base."

"I've noticed they might be," Travos refused to commit.

"Aye," Tachy nodded. "In that case," the former cavalry officer stared around the darkened drinking-house, "we can spend a few hours entertaining a few of the likely tavern wenches."

Travos shook his head, unable to believe his companion's irresponsible attitude. He'd always know that the cavalry were a feckless lot, but this beggared belief. "No," he turned away. "We don't have the time to spare. Get a move on."

* * *

"Good morn, fair Faith."

Faith rose sinuously, temper flaring as she hurriedly buttoned her tunic over her still wet body. Turning, she glared at the figure stood watching her from under a poolside tree. Just how long had the bastard been watching her for? "I was washing," she growled. "Have you heard of privacy?"

"Ah," Valentine smiled. "Elves don't hold with such prudery."

"Well I ain't an elf."

"No," her eyes widened when the cheeky bastard had the nerve to run a finger down the side of her face. "You are not. But you have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Thanks, I'm flattered," Faith lied as she stepped out of arm's reach. "But I'm not interested. I've got someone."

"Xander?" Valentine sniffed. "That one-eye is not worthy of such a beauty."

Okay, Faith's temper snapped. She'd been insulted and looked down her entire life, and she was down with that, but nobody talked shit about her man. "Yeah," she pouted seductively before sinking to her knees before the elf, "you're right. Let me show my appreciation." Her fist flew up in an uppercut landing between the elf's legs.

"Ahhhh," his face greening, the elven Romeo pitched onto his hands and knees, breath coming in desperate pants.

"Listen good you pointy eared prick." Faith snatched a hold of the elf's left ear and yanked it hard before crouching down beside the elf and whispering in his ear. "I've known sleazes like you my entire life. I ain't interested, you stay the fuck out of my way and away from my girls, and if I catch you bad-mouthing my X again, I'll be wearing your ears on a necklace." Rising, she strode off, leaving the elf to his pain.

Valentine wheezed and gasped for breath, tears blinding him even as he reeled at the Slayer's power.

"Ach, laddie. That Faith, she's a firecracker isn't she? Here, let me help you up." Before Valentine had a chance to speak an impossibly strong hand grabbed him around his throat and yanked him upright. He stared dazedly into Angel's face. "I'm going to let you into a secret," the powerfully-built human smiled, "you remind me of a lad I once knew. A right rum 'un by the name of Liam. He was a regular charmer with a real eye for the ladies, not unlike yourself. A pretty wee lass like Faith would have stirred his blood for sure. And then, once he'd had his fun, he'd have cast her aside. Now here's my problem," Angel's eyes bored through him, "Faith's family. She and Xander are happy; he makes her happier than she's ever been. Do anything to ruin that and you'll regret it."

Valentine's blood chilled at the cold look in the man's eyes. "I fear no man," he blustered.

"That's good," Valentine gasped when Angel's handsome features changed into something horrifyingly distorted, "because technically, not a man. In fact for a hundred and fifty years I was my world's most feared killer. You hurt Faith and I'll make your corpse a piece of performance art. Are we understanding one another?" Valentine nodded, eyes fixed on Angel's terrible face. "Good." The monster's face returned to normal. "Now, let's get back to the others."

"By the abyss!" Travos dropped from his saddle to inspect the cloven ground. "This isn't good."

"What is it?" the cavalry officer stayed seated on his steed, eyes likewise examining the tracks.

"A large body of horsemen are pursuing the strangers," he reported, eyes fixed on the ground. "Maybe two hours behind them and a hour ahead of us."

"Who? Hordesmen?"

"Unlikely," he shook his head at the former Fleet Sword's urgent query. "Their riding pattern is too undisciplined."

"Who then? Bandits?"

"No," he shook his head again. "There's not many bandit gangs that size. I'd guess we're looking at Clear-Bloods."

"By the abyss," Tachy scowled. "But what would the Clear-, the elves of course."

"We best warn them," Travos decided as he strode back to his horse.

"And we best be quick about it," Tachy replied.

* * *

"We've got a problem," Rona declared. "Some of those Clear-Bloods are trailing us."

"So?" Kennedy shot the African-American a dismissive glance. "They're no big deal."

"Three hundred of them are," Rona replied.

"Three hundred? Oh bloody hell!" Giles looked left and right. "I suppose running is out of the question?"

"No," the elven prince interjected. "The land ahead is marsh, not fit for fast travel, and past that is the rebel stronghold. We don't want to lead them there."

"Bugger," Giles looked around again. To the left was a steep incline, to the right, a wide rushing river. Neither were quickly traversable. "We're going to have to make a stand."

"If I might make a suggestion?" Giles looked towards Angel. Right now he'd take any help he could. "We passed a slight incline with a rise behind it perhaps ten minutes back. It's holdable, at least for a while."

"For a while," Giles grimly repeated. It seemed a while was all they had. "Let's move!"

* * *

Jabari's brow furrowed and eyes narrowed as he felt the unmistakable shudder of a large group passing near-by. Pulling up his steed, he hid behind a large hedgerow.

A few minutes later and the galloping band passed by. Jabari bared his teeth in a snarl as he peeked over the hedgerow and recognised the party's distinctive red cloaks with a human face embossed on them. "Clear-Bloods," he growled deep in his throat. His land didn't have many non-humans living in it, but any who did settle had been accepted. Under the Emir's rule, the Clear-Bloods in Shem had always been ruthlessly hunted down. "Three hundred to one," Jabari smiled bleakly. A battle to remember. After checking his weapons, he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and started after the oblivious group.


	9. Chapter 9

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (9/?) **

****

"Have I mentioned that I have a very bad feeling about this?" Xander muttered, solitary eye fixed on the mob charging towards them, the sun gleaming off their many weapons.

"Don't worry," Faith winked at her man. "I won't let anything happen to my boytoy."

"Well that's reassuring." Xander nodded towards the rampaging force. "Are you going to tell them that?"

"Planning to." Faith looked around. Illyria had torn up a practical forest of trees and impaled them in the area at the bottom of the incline, creating a sort of barricade that should at least slow their enemy's advance. The elves were behind them with bows at the ready, along with Red ready to do her Sabrina thing. The rest of them were in the front line, awaiting the rush.

Faith's eyes narrowed as she noticed perhaps four dozen of the Clear-Bloods splitting off to try and out-flank them to their right. "Fang you see it?"

"I see it," her stoic idol replied.

"Ken, Ron, Vi, join me and Angel on the right. X," Faith winked at her man, "see ya in a few."

Turning her attention back to the matter in hand, she pulled on her horse's reins, guiding it down the hill at the head of her fellow Slayers and Angel. Every gallop of her steed thundered through her. The last thing she saw was her enemies' wide eyes and then she crashed into them.

* * *

"Faith-," Xander's voice trailed off as his wife rode off.

"Ach, laddie," he glanced behind to see Bellator, a wry smile on the weathered warrior's face. "Don't worry. That wee lass is too feisty to allow an insignificance like a small army to stop her from coming back to you." The battle-worn mercenary's smile disappeared. "You'd be best concerning yourself with the enemy heading towards us."

Xander nodded before returning his gaze to the front. By now the elves had begun firing arrow after arrow into their charging attackers. Although the elves unleashed their barrage at a blur, each arrow downing a Clear-Blood, the racists plunged on, only slowing when they reached Illyria's hastily created obstacle course. Sweat began to drip down his forehead. "Steady lad," Bellator muttered in his ear, barely audible over the din. "Not long now." Xander shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, watching, waiting.

The moment the opposing faces exited the barricades, Connor, Groo, and Illyira charged to meet them, Bellator, Xander, Wood, and Giles staying to guard Willow and the elves. And what carnage did Willow create. Trees from the barricade uprooted and flew into riders, taking five, six down at a time. Illusory apparitions appeared, spooking horses, causing them to throw their riders. Underground roots flew out from beneath, grabbing a hold of horses' legs, causing them to buckle.

Those who escaped Willow's magics ran into Connor and the others. The skill of Groo, Illyria's awesome rage, and the vampire son's blinding agility. Between them they took down dozens. But still they came, sheer weight of numbers meaning this battle could only end one way.

* * *

Kennedy's heart pounded in tandem with her horse as she and the others charged head-long at the advancing Clear-Bloods. As a child she'd spent many an idyllic afternoon riding. But never, she smiled reluctantly, riding into battle.

"Yes!" An unbidden scream erupted from her lips as she reached the Clear-Bloods. The first Clear-Blood attempted to skewer her with a sword-thrust that she easily blocked before swing kicking the fanatic's weapon away. She briefly saw the thug's eyes widen with surprise and then her fist was crunching into his face.

Kennedy didn't bother to watch the renegade's collapse. Twisting at the waist, she parried a lunge at her before replying with a back-handed slash, her blade cutting deep into the man's side.

Ignoring both the blood spewing out of the man's side and the bile that rose in her throat at the sight of it, Kennedy geed her horse forward, deeper into the melee. "No!" Her eyes widened in horror when a Clear-Blood thrust his blade deep into her horse's neck.

The horse threw back its head and neighed its distress, blood vomiting out of its mouth. Kennedy caught sight of the beast's despairing eyes as it collapsed, pitching head-first to the ground. Kennedy flung herself free, hitting the churned up grass on her shoulder. Kennedy began to roll up to her feet.

And then a horse's hoof crashed into her forehead and she was plunged into unconsciousness.

* * *

"By the abyss!" Torvas shook his head as he looked through his one-handed telescope and to the on going battle some eight hundred metres to their left. All this work, all the searching and it would all come to naught. He looked to his left and the dandy beside him. "What are you doing?"

His companion did not deign to look towards him, continuing to check his stirrups. "Getting ready to help them."

"I always knew you Fleet Swords had heads as thick as tree trunks, but this!" Torvas shook his head. "There's hundreds of them!"

Tachy shot him a gleaming smile. "We were set a mission," the former cavalry officer pointed out. "And the way they're cutting through the Clear-Bloods we'll be facing dozens rather than hundreds."

"Oh that's alright then." Torvas threw his head back and laughed. "To the void with common sense. Never let it said a Watching Steel would turn away from a Fleet Sword's challenge!"

* * *

Diokete Xulon stared down at the raging battle going on before her. Despite the cover offered by the trees concealing her and her followers, terror twisted her insides as her mind travelled through the corridors of the past.

As a child she'd lived a blissfully happy life in a simple southern village. And then a troop of Clear-Bloods had fallen upon their village, murdering elves and dwarves who'd lived there harmoniously for decades and 'purified' the humans for committing the heinous crime of living with other species. Her father had died that day trying to protect her and since then she'd trailed relentlessly to ensure that no-one would ever have to die protecting her again.

"Are you alright?"

Diokete turned towards her brother to her left, heart catching as it always did at the man's rasp. It had been caused by a Clear-Blood's slash to her brother's throat when he'd attempted to protect her, as was the jagged vertical scar beneath his left eye and his missing left little finger.

Yet despite his infirmities, Elipzo was still a formidable figure. Short with black unflinching eyes and a pointed goatee that matched his eyes, her brother's thickly-muscled physique was clothed in loose-fitting woollen black breeches, a fur jerkin over a chain-mail shirt, and a brass skullcap over his bald pate. A short sword and a trio of throwing knives hung from the leather belt around his portly waist.

"I'm fine," Diokete smiled wanly before returning her gaze to the skirmish. "Their defiance stirs my blood."

"We have a mission to complete!"

Diokete turned to the speaker, eyes narrowing. "It can wait!"

"Dys Andros is not a man to be kept waiting," the speaker pressed.

Diokete's lips thinned as she struggled to keep a hold of her patience. After their village's decimation, Elipzo had decided that they should join with Dys Andros, the Empire's most notorious bandit and probably the only person the Clear-Bloods feared.

Until now. Diokete shook her head as she came to a terrifying decision. "We're no going," she replied. "They need our help."

"We have our orders!" squeaked the protestor.

"Then go," she shot her companions a challenging look. "I have greater concerns than robbing a trade caravan."

" Andros will hear about this!"

Diokete was dismayed when fourteen of her twenty-six strong group joined the protestor in riding off. Clearly their fear of Andros was more compelling than their loyalty to her. Swallowing her disappointment, Diokete drew her sword before looking towards her brother and the others who'd remained behind. "Let's ride!"

* * *

Faith smirked as she used the back of her hand to wipe the sweat off her brow. The fighting had been frenzied, but she'd come through it in one piece, the enemy routed. Crouching down, she wiped her blade clean on the grass.

Looking around, she saw her hubby, their companions, and a bunch of strangers who'd come out of nowhere to help them. Faith opened her mouth to yell a greeting to her man. "Kennedy?" her eyes snapped to a drawn-looking Willow. "Where's Kennedy?"

"Ah hell," Faith whispered as she cast a worried look around, heart tightening as she tried and failed to find any sight of her fellow raven-haired Slayer. The first woman who'd offered to be her friend.

"Oh bollocks," Giles took over. "Angel, can you or Connor smell Kennedy?"

The vampire shook his head. "Too many people, too much death."

"Bugger," the Watcher scowled. "Then we had best split up."

"Xan, Bellator with me," Faith instructed. Her eyes narrowed as she remembered somewhere close to the ten of the raiders breaking away before the end of the battle. Maybe they'd grabbed Ken on the way out.

* * *

Their losses had been terrible, but it would all be worth it. Oduim sneered at the restrained beauty, her hands and feet chained as she'd been flung unconscious across the back of a horse. "You might have broken my nose my pretty. But I'll see to it that every bone in your body is broken." His sneer widened as the girl's eyes flicked open to glare at him. "Oh those eyes! I'll have to see about plucking -."

"Clear-Bloods! Cowards! Murderers! Scum!"

Oduim's blood chilled as he looked up to see his heckler. The man was an ebony-skinned giant with a battle-worn warrior's face, long braids resting on his broad shoulders. He brandished a broadsword that any normal man would need two hands to lift in his right hand and a giant battle-axe in his left, the war stallion beneath him seemingly controlled by sheer will alone.

Oduim swallowed, something shrivelling inside him at the cold gleam in the Shem's eyes. Oduim glanced left and right. Fortified by his companions' presence, he let out a ragged yell. "Charge him!"

All seven of his troops charged forward, their steeds' hooves thumping on the ground. A barbaric war-cry erupted from the Shem's mouth and then he bounded forward. The warrior's sword slashed to his right, taking a Clear-Blood's head off, blood showering everywhere. At the same time he blocked a sword thrust on his left with his axe before thrusting across his body, sword sliding through his would-be attacker's ribs.

And then the giant was past the remaining five Clear-Bloods. The man-mountain turned his horse in an impossibly tight half-circle before crashing his axe into the back of the head of the nearest Clear-Blood, viscera erupting from the calamitous wound as the attacker yanked his weapon loose. One of the remaining quartet turned to face the warrior. The Clear-Blood's lips bared in a desperate snarl as he blocked a back-handed broadsword slash and then howled in pain when the Shem followed up with an axe across his body, ripping into the Clear-Blood's stomach.

One of the last surviving Clear-Bloods crashed into the Shem's war stallion only for his lighter pony to stagger back. The Clear-Blood raised his shield to parry an axe-swing. Such was the force of the attack that the shield was knocked aside, the weapon continuing on route to its target, the victim's face disappearing in a crimson spray.

Oduim's mouth opened in an out-raged bellow when his last two followers turned tail and fled. His shout turned to a croak when the Shem's deathly gaze dropped on him. Oduim glanced at his captive, trying to decide whether to dump her and run or take her with him.

By the time he'd decided, it was already too late. He was falling from his horse, head cleaved almost in two from a downward axe-swing.

* * *

"Wow," Xander stared in disbelief at the giant black they'd just seen decimate the fleeing Clear-Bloods they'd been tracking as the man freed a dazed-looking Kennedy.

"He's like Teal'c with braids."

"We could leave the two of you alone if you'd like a homo-erotic moment together," Faith smirked.

Xander glowered at his wife. "Remind me why I married you?"

Faith's smirk turned to a leer. "I think we both know the answer to that." Faith sobered. "Let's grab Ken and get back to the others."

* * *

Areos Lex smiled as his guest was escorted into his dark, featureless office. His square-faced guest had thin cruel lips and bitter brown eyes, his face pock-marked from some illness or other and his straggly hair prematurely grey. His unprepossessing appearance was only added to by his paunch and stale, drinker's breath. "Hello, Vistro." Lex nodded at one of the finest tools at his disposal. "Please take a seat."

"Sir," the bounty hunter rasped before sitting. "I understand you have an assignment."

"Oh yes," Lex nodded. To his way of thinking these dimensional interlopers presented an opportunity. For whatever reason they worried the emperor and therefore whoever dealt with them would gain much favour. And Vistro would be his instrument to accomplish this. As the leader of the Gut-Eaters, the empire's most ruthlessly efficient bounty-hunters, a band of multi-national cut-throats who if not for their licence, would be foremost amongst the hunted. "An assignment that could make you very wealthy."

He passed the documents over the rough-hewn table. The room was almost completely silent for the next few minutes but for the crinkle of paper as Vistro read through the information on the strangers with a furrowed brow. Finally the bounty-hunter looked up, a calculating gleam in his eyes. "These strangers sound tough. I'll have to hire more men, maybe even the Blood-Trackers and the Killing-Shadows."

Lex smiled at the mention of the empire's other leading bounty-hunters. All money-hungry scum, but that was a large part of what made them so dangerous. "Hire who you need. I'll make sure it'll be more than worth your while."


	10. Chapter 10

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (10/?) **

****

"Mi'lord?"

Earl Andres looked up at the knock on his front door. Recognising the excited voice as belonging to Petro Pyrgos he raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the animation in the normally dour captain's voice before looking towards the scarred muscleman by the door. "Let him in," he instructed.

Probus nodded before opening the door, hand warily resting on his sword hilt even in the presence of his fellow soldier. But then there had been three past assassination attempts on him.

Pyrgos' eyes had a rare gleam as he bounded into Andres' ramshackle office. "Mi lord, the summonsed dozen have arrived!" The former Honoured Watch officer took a breath before continuing his report. "And that is not all. Slice-Hand, the Vengeful Weapon, and Dancing Death are with them!"

Andres' eyes widened. Slice-Hand was a legend of yester-year, believed dead for years, but in his prime a formidable warrior. Vengeful Weapon, Jabari Aren, was with the Ishanti Blade-Lord, Ka'Tra Swift-Sword, and Kamper Kraft of the Kennest Blade, one of the world's three premier warriors. Dancing Death on the other hand was a notorious lady outlaw, known as much for her sharp temper as her dazzling sword skill. "Why?"

"According to Marcello, Slice-Hand had been travelling with the twelve. Jabari Aren and Diokete Xulon were drawn by a fight they were having with Clear-Bloods."

"Ah," Andres nodded dazedly before collecting himself. "It seems that fortune is smiling on us at last. These champions from another dimension and our own, present us with -."

Suddenly the door crashed open and a striking beautiful brunette stormed in, black eyes spitting fire. Probus stepped to intercept her, but an elbow to the chest sent him wheezing into the far wall. "Not on your best day," the curvy beauty snarled before directing her volcanic gaze at Petro. "Don't even think it," she warned before turning back to him, grabbing the corners of his desk and leaning over it. "They say you're the big cheese around here, right?" His mouth opened. Before he could speak, his uninvited guest continued. "Yeah, you're the boss, you've got the self-important jive of a bastard Watcher. Question is are you the mother-fucker who did the spell who transported me across dimensions in the raw?"

Andres gulped. He only understood one word in ten of what the enraged beauty had growled at him, but he got enough of the general gist to be worried. "T…the mage who performed the spell is dead."

"Oh," the raven-haired temptress looked briefly nonplussed before straightening. "Lucky for him." The young woman's ebony orbs hardened to stone. "How the fuck are we supposed to get home then?"

Andres swallowed again. "That is beyond my knowledge," he reluctantly admitted.

"Fucking A!" the brunette snorted before turning on her heel and striding out of the room, door slamming behind him.

It was a moment before Andres managed to speak. "That was Faith I assume?" Petro paused in helping Probus to his feet to nod. "By all the fires," he muttered. Magoi's drawing had not done the woman's vibrant beauty justice, but the notes he'd written had also failed to mention she had a temper to rival an enraged ogre's. Squaring his shoulder, he stood, chair scraping back on the threadbare red carpet underfoot. "We had best greet our guests."

* * *

Angel looked up as Faith erupted from one of the buildings, the building shuddering under her exit. "I think someone's not happy," Connor muttered.

"Gee," Angel winced as Faith's voice reached them, a few seconds before the sulphurous Slayer, "what gave it away?"

He watched as Xander hurried over to intercept his wife. Marrying Faith, he couldn't decide if that proved Xander had great taste or was insanely brave. Knowing Xander, he decided it was probably a little bit of both. He scowled as his enhanced hearing picked up what the Bostonian had learnt from her confrontation with the rebel leader. The mage had brought them here had died in the attempt? That wasn't good at all.

Even as he started towards the duo, a distinguished-looking man, a nobleman if his memories from his human days served him, hurried out of the building Faith had just exited, a pair of tough-looking men flanking him. "Greetings travellers," the greying man shot Faith a tentative look before casting a glance over their entire party. "Thank you for coming-."

"Like we had a choice."

The noble grimaced at Faith's grunt. "I'm honoured to make your acquaintance. Perhaps you'd like to talk somewhere more discreet."

Giles shot Faith a warning glare. The Bostonian Slayer glared right back at the Englishman. "By all means sir," the Council head turned to the noble. "Please, lead the way."

"Most gracious," the nobleman nodded. "This way."

The man led their group through a bewildering succession of narrow streets, crooked alleys, and up and down steps until at last stopping at the back of a long thin building. The noble turned back to face them. "I apologise for the circuitous route, but secrecy is of the utmost importance. Should the empire discover our base here they'd wipe us and this town from the map. Please, come in."

As the noble had been speaking, the two rebels who'd helped them in their battle with the Clear-Bloods had opened the building's door to reveal a barn, its floor covered with straw. "I'm Earl Fortis Andres, the leader of the resistance."

"Rupert Giles, leader of our little group," the Watcher replied. Angel decided allowing the Watcher his illusions wasn't going to hurt anyone. Each of them introduced themselves in turn, Illyria with her trademark arrogance and Faith her usual grumpiness.

Once the introductions were over, Earl Fortis Andres nodded. "I apologise both for our rude surrounding and the way you were brought here. It was done without my knowledge or approval."

"Then maybe you could just send us back?" Kennedy suggested.

"I am afraid that's not possible," the Earl paused before casting Faith an almost fearful look. "The spell-casting cost our pre-eminent mage his life."

The barn erupted in an uproar, questions and shouts filling the air. Eventually Giles managed to calm the clamour to discomforted mutters. "We have Willow," the Englishman pointed out. "It might take a little time but I'm sure she can work out how to send us home." Kennedy's mouth opened. "Without loss of life of course." The Watcher looked towards the resistance leader. "And while we are here we can perhaps help you? If you have any ideas?"

After a second the earl nodded. "We have a number of targets that be too difficult for normals to take out without -."

"Screw this drip drop approach," Faith snapped. "You've got all the other resistance groups, Bellator told us about them. Why not get them all together, strike at the capital, The Impregnable Will, and wipe this asshole Emperor from the face of the planet?"

A long silence followed Faith's suggestion. "I think that is a little rash -."

"No," Xander interrupted Giles' rebuke. "We were sent here for a reason. We never tried to contain the Master, the Mayor, or any of the others."

"He has a point, Giles," Angel added his support. "An organisation this size can be easily squashed. Adding other groups will only make it stronger."

"The other groups won't work with us," the earl replied.

"Then you idiot," Angel groaned as Xander's scathingly undiplomatic comment, "you work with them. The emperor's the big issue isn't he? Sort everything else afterwards!"

The earl stared at the one-eyed Watcher. "You are wise indeed!" Angel snorted. "Only it is perilous to travel any distance, the Hordesmen and their allies are everywhere."

"Then we'll be careful," Angel said. "Who do you suggest we get in contact with?"

"Ka'Tra Swift Sword in Ishanti, Kamper Kraft of the Keenest Blade is rumoured to be raiding in Urad, Mate Dane in the Highlands, and Chief Dulak of Shem."

"No-body else?" Giles queried.

The earl shrugged. "Resistance in all other lands has been pacified."

"How encouraging," Angel guessed that only he and Connor picked up Giles' whisper. "Xander," the Englishman looked towards Xander, "I'd like you to take Faith and hunt down this Kraft-."

"I used to serve with The Keenest Blade," Bellator interrupted. "I'd be more than happy to go with them."

"Thank you," the Englishman nodded respectfully. "I was just about to ask you to." The Watcher turned to Wood. "Robin, I was wondering if you'd accompany Jabari into Shem?" The African-American nodded silently. "Thank you," Giles turned to him, "Angel, if you'd be so good as to lend him the Groosaluug?" Angel looked towards his friend. Groo nodded. "Thank you, Angel, could you take the rest of your team to meet with Mate Dane?" He nodded. "Thank you, Miss Xulon, could you and your brother go with him as guides?"

The lady outlaw shrugged. "Got nothing better to do."

"Most kind." The Watcher looked towards Kennedy. "Kennedy, could you take Rona and Vi, together with Tachy and Torvas, and go to Ishanti?"

"Sure Giles," the lesbian Slayer agreed. "Only what are you and," Kennedy looked towards her girl-friend, "Willow going to do?"

"Ah, yes," Giles pinched his nose before continuing. "I had thought Willow and myself would stay here and attempt to research the spell that brought us here." Giles looked towards the noble. "If that's alright?"

"Of course," the earl agreed.

"Perhaps you could tell us some more about the empire's major players?" Xander suggested.

"Of course,." The earl looked towards one of the men with him. "Petro is the head of our military operations. He'll answer any questions as much as he can."

"Okay," Angel raised an eyebrow at Xander's commanding tone. Maybe the boy had changed after all. "How about you tell us about the imperial organisation, the groups that might be hunting us?"

"I'd be more than happy to oblige," the soldier paused. "Warlord Bellum leads the main force, the Howling Hordes. They're an army of tens of thousands. They're murderously efficient."

"Bellum's good," Bellator growled. "He would be the leader of The Keenest Blade, except he broke the 1st and 2nd rules."

"The 1st and 2nd rules?" Faith asked. "Whatcha talkin' 'bout?"

"No Keenest Blade will kill a civilian. No Keenest Blade will rape or torture a prisoner," Bellator intoned. "These are the rules that make The Keenest Blade the elite of the mercenary world, because they hold themselves to a higher standard." The grizzled veteran paused. "Bellum was a young officer two decades ago when he ransacked a village and tortured a number of prisoners for information." The battle-hardened warrior paused for a second. "Bellum's a brilliant strategist and leader, but utterly ruthless and amoral."

"Then there is Areox Lex, the leader of the Purge. The Purge hunt down rebels, dissidents, and deserters in addition to spying on the civilian population. They're everywhere, fear of them is everywhere." Petro paused. "Decorus Mors is the leader of The Shadow Fang. Little is known about The Shadow Fang, but they're always used by the emperor as a precursor to invasion, assassinating all of a nation's leaders. Then there is Dotos Hex, apart from the emperor our world's most powerful magic-user. She leads The Magic-Tamers, an organisation that polices the empire's magi, killing all who won't join and using their powers to police normals."

"King of like the Psi Corps in Babylon 5." Xander reddened when everyone turned to him. Angel smirked, maybe the kid hadn't changed that much. "Sorry, go on."

After an uncertain stare at Xander, Petro nodded. "There is also Therion Wanax. A snarling brute of a man, he is little better than the beasts he controls – goblins, trolls, ogres, and other even fouler creations." The soldier paused, distaste flickering across his face. "And now we reach the worst – Crucia Sequi. He runs The Truth-Givers, the Imperial religious order who force the general population to worship the emperor as a living god. Any 'blasphemers' are given into his hands for re-education'." Petro scowled. "He is a sadist who frequently trumps up charges against either those who challenge him or women who take his fancy so he can get them into his hands. In addition, he experiments on his prisoners, merging them with animals or demons, testing their pain thresholds, amongst other still darker things."

"He sounds like just the guy ya wanna bring home to mom." Faith paused. "Well, my mom anyhow."

The soldier looked towards Faith for a second before continuing. "Then there is Veritas Callidus, the emperor's adjunct, the woman whose order in any matter can only be over-ruled by the emperor himself. And the Fists, the governors of each of the conquered lands."

A long silence followed the warrior's words. "Boy," Connor finally commented, "you know how to make people feel welcome don't you?"

* * *

Vistro hid a smirk as he made his way through the tavern attached to the city barracks, eyes fixed on the two men sat in the far corner. One was an Ishanti, tall for his race with cold, dead eyes, hooked nose, and a scar running down his left cheek. The other was a short and powerfully-built figure, dressed entirely in dirty animal fur. Grey hair was tied in a pony-tail so that his savagely hewn features and yellowed, uneven teeth were clearly visible.

Vistro was barely able to control his glee as he approached the two men. The first of the pair was Tla Ra Swiftsword, younger cousin of Ka Ra and perhaps the only man capable of rivalling Ka Ra as the empire's greatest swordsman. The other was Tod Nacht, a brute of an axe-man who had been the chief of one of Urad's largest Horse Clans. Both men led bounty-hunters, Nacht 'The Dread-Bringers, and Swiftsword, 'The Head-Takers'. Together with his 'Soul-Hunters', they were the empire's most notorious bounty-hunters. And now with the imperial edict in his back-pocket, all three groups were under his control, no matter what Swiftsword or Nacht said.

And now he had fifty warriors to take down twelve.


	11. Chapter 11

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (11/?) **

****

"Might I ask what you're doing?"

Petro looked up at the voice behind him, surprised that someone had managed to sneak up on him. Turning, he faced the bespectacled stranger stood there. Remembering the earl's admonishment to extend the visitors' every courtesy, he forced a smile. "I am checking the town's defences, Rupert Giles."

"Please," the man glanced at the town's wall and then back at him, "call me Giles."

"Is it usual for the men of your world to be referred to by their family name?" Petro asked.

"No, not at all," the stranger chuckled. "My charges," a look of fondness flickered over the man's lined face, "christened me that a decade ago. I've grown accustomed to it. These days, I sometimes forget what my first name is. Although that might have more to do with my advancing years." The man chuckled again before sobering. "Perhaps I could offer you some advice on the defences?"

Petro stared at the dimensional traveller. "You are a general in your land?"

"A general?" The man's brow furrowed in thought. "I suppose I am of a sort. But my expertise comes mostly from history."

"Begging your pardon, Giles," Petro chose his words carefully, "but I need soldiers not scholars."

The foreigner chuckled. "The history of my world is replete with warfare and sieges. I've studied them extensively, perhaps I could offer some suggestions from our history."

"Then I would be a fool not to take advantage of your knowledge," Petro looked around. "Perhaps we could tour the defences and you could give me your thoughts?"

"A splendid idea."

"Your companions are mighty heroes are they not?" Petro queried as they started through the town's narrow streets. "'Tis passing strange all these female warriors."

The scholar by his side chuckled. "It would be wise to keep your opinion to yourself. Should Faith or Kennedy hear you say that, they'd geld you. Between them my Slayers have saved our world multiple times and slain many demons in the past three years."

"And the men of your party?" Petro pressed. "Angel, Groosaluug, and Robin have the look of warriors, but the one-eyed one and the boy do not."

"Xander," pride flickered in his companion's eyes, "has saved or helped save the world more times than any of my Slayers. Moreover, one could not hope for a more steadfast friend. Connor," the man shrugged, "I have only Faith's reports on him, but she is reliable, well except for her expense reports, and she believes he is a formidable fighter. And our records indicate he has been involved in victories over a number of notable demons."

Petro shook his head. "This talk of demons makes one's head spin. I am sure you have many interesting stories. After we've finished our inspection perhaps we can find an inn to drink a few ales and swap tales one warrior to another?"

"That sounds like a marvellous way to spend a few hours," Giles declared.

* * *

"I can't do it."

Zauber shook her head as the levitating book crashed into the wooden desk under it. Such power, it was a crying shame it was marred by such impatience. "You can," she soothed. "You have to-."

"I can't!" the girl's face flushed the colour of her strawberry hair. "I won't work!"

"Child," Zauber tutted as she leaned back in her rocking chair, stretching the cramped muscles in her lower back, "you have the power, it pulsates in the air around you. Magna merely works differently in this dimension."

"But it's not fair!" the witch squealed. "Magic is usually so easy for me!"

Ah, Zauber hid a smile as inspiration struck. Now she understood what the crux of the problem was. The child was obviously used to effortlessly achieving anything she set her mind to. "The spell to return you and your companions is a powerful one." She paused, the admission she was about to make a bitter one. "Even in my youth, I did not have the power to complete such a spell but you do. Indeed, the emperor aside, you are probably the only person in this world who can. Your friends are relying on you to get them home. I am sure you would not want to let them down?"

"No," the younger witch sucked in her cheeks and sighed. "Let's try it again."

"Very well." Again Zauber had to hide a smile, this time at the determination shining in the child's eyes. Undisciplined and impatient she may be, but by the pantheon she had spirit and loyalty. "Focus your energy on the book-."

"Oh sorry!"

Her eyes widened when the book burst into flames. Yes there was power, it was just a question of focussing it.

* * *

"You said back at the town that you knew Kraft when you were in the Keenest Blade?"

"Aye," Bellator glanced at the captivating brunette riding beside him with a practiced ease. She was a beauty to stir any man's blood, and yet he found himself feeling an almost father's pride in her. There was something of the injured nightingale about her, making him want to protect her. Not that, he chuckled inwardly, the warrior princess would ever allow him to.

Realising the lass in question was staring impatiently at him, he nodded. "Aye, him and Bellum both. Both were grand warriors and master tacticians to boot. But Kraft was a man of honour, while Bellum," Bellator spat on the ground, "was a sadistic brute. After we traced the massacre of a village back to him we attempted to have him arrested and handed over to the authorities. But he killed the quartet sent to apprehend him and disappeared, re-appearing a few years ago as the chief of the Hordes." Bellator sighed. "Bellum has the looks of an ape, but they mask an incisive mind."

"Sounds like my pops," Faith's husband put in. "Well, 'cept the brains' part. Will this Kraft work with us?"

Ah, that was the burr in the saddle and no mistake. The Keenest Blade were a mercenary unit, undisputedly the finest in the world. But as famous as they were for their countless victories, they were almost as famous for fighting under their own leaders rather than the direct control of their employees. Independence ran strong in the blood of The Keenest Blade. "Kraft's a cagey devil, he'll want to be free as much as any of us, but it'll rankle with him, having to work with others," he replied.

"But he'll work with?" Xander pressed.

"Aye," he nodded. "If we can find 'em."

Hours later and they were pulling up outside a two-storied tavern in a small, oval-shaped village fivee days' ride from the Parhea-Urad border. The sounds of raucous carousing drifted out of the inn, making the hairs on the back of Bellator's neck prickle in pre-cognitive alarm. "Maye be we should ride on," he suggested. "Get a few more leagues nearer the border and sleep in the forest."

"Screw that," Faith shot him a disgusted look as she dropped from her horse. "I'm dirty, tired, and hungry. No way am I sleeping in the cold."

Concerned about the possibility of trouble, his soldier's instinct was seldom wrong, Bellator opened his mouth to protest. "Don't bother," Xander chuckled, "my wife's half-mule. And she likes her comforts."

"Very well," Bellator forced his forebodings aside. "Let us stable our horses first though."

Bellator's heart sank as they entered the stone-floored inn. In all ways but one it was a typical tavern – farm labourers and craftsmen patrons sat dotted around tables, flickering heath, and bar stocked with an assortment of cheap liquor. But in one corner sat a table of half a dozen grey robed figures, cowls shadowing their faces. "Truth-Givers," he muttered before raising his voice. "Perhaps it would be wise to leave."

"Hell no, we're here now." Hips seductively swinging, the sultry beauty stalked over to the bar. After a shake of his head, he started after the brunette, her husband at his side.

They'd been at the bar scant seconds when one of the Truth-Givers rose and strutted over. "You," he rasped at Faith. "We have need of company. Come."

Faith didn't look away from her glass. "No."

"Good sir," Bellator forced a merry note into his voice, "it was my daughter's wedding last night. Let me buy you a -."

"Silence," the Truth-Giver's eyes didn't shift from the curvy beauty. "You are honoured, girl. You have been chosen to serve your god's messengers."

"Not my god," the Slayer stiffened imperceptibly. "And you might wanna take your hand off my ass."

The Truth-Giver seemed to glower from within his cowl. "You dare to blaspheme? You have no idea the pain your words invite!"

The supernatural warrior threw her head back, raven tresses dancing. "You want pain?" Bellator winced when the Slayer's elbow cannoned into the priest's face. The room's expectant hush was shattered by the sound of cracking bone as the priest flew backwards, his cowl falling open to reveal blood pouring down his face. "Happy now?" the Slayer turned back to the bar.

A shocked half-second passed. And then chairs were flung back, scraping against the stone floor as the other Truth-Givers rose. "Men never learn." The Slayer shook her head as she turned towards the advancing quintet, a dangerous gleam in her brown orbs. "You boys wanna piece of this? Come and get some."

Bellator stepped forward, hand dropping to his sword hilt. "Don't." He turned when Xander grabbed his shoulder, surprised at the amused glint in the man's solitary eye. "Class is now in session. Faith doesn't like being interrupted when she's teaching."

Bellator turned back in time to see the Slayer leap into the air and take two men out with a spin-kick to the face. Blood showered the walls as the two men crashed to the ground.

The moment she landed, Faith was accosted by another two priests charging her from left and right. Blocking a left on her forearm, she grabbed the other priest around the throat and flung him into his companion. The remaining priests began to back away, but the Slayer was remorseless. "No ya don't." Bellator winced as a kick to the groin lifted the priest off his feet, sending him sailing into a table behind, the unfortunate furniture splintering under the impact. Plates of food and half-drunk beer mugs spilt over the downed man as he lay in the table's ruins.

Bellator's eyes widened as two of the priests stumbled to their feet behind the Slayer. His mouth opened in a warning shout.

Before he could utter a syllable, the brunette's left elbow swung upwards and back, the point smashing into one of the priests' faces. The impact of the blow cracked around the tavern and the man was lifted off the floor and flung into the bar counter. The other attempted to bring his guard up. "Ahhhhhhhh!" the man screamed as the Slayer stamped her heel against his outer knee, splintering bone. The man fell backwards, taking out another table. A step to her right, and one unfortunate priest who'd just managed to make his feet caught a heel-kick to the chest, propelling him through the nearest window.

The priest who'd first harassed the curvy brunette had dragged himself up by the table he'd landed beside. "Word to the wise." The Slayer stalked over to the man, grabbing and twisting his left wrist when he snatched up a glass and attempted to drive it into her face. The man screamed wordlessly as bone broke and the glass fell from his shattered hand. The Slayer moved her grip to two handfuls of the priest's robe. "No," the enraged beauty slammed her forehead into the whimpering man's face. "Means," her knee collided with his over-stuffed mid-section." No." The woman threw the man from her, wrapping him around one of the ceiling beams.

"I think class is over."

"Indeed." Bellator nodded at Xander's comment. He stared around the devastated bar, furniture and groaning bodies strewn everywhere. The captivating brunette stood in the centre of the floor, every patrons' fearful eyes fixed on her.

"Back home we went on a date once. Faith likes grunge music," Bellator stared at the younger man. The dimensional leaper shrugged. "Never mind, I don't understand it myself. Anyway, this band she liked were playing a gig at a local bar. So she dragged me down." Xander shook his head. "I really hate her taste in music. The bar was a real dump and this biker gang thought Faith shouldn't be allowed to say no. Two minutes later and seven of them were out cold, and the other three wished they were. Faith's a passionate believer in a woman's right to chose." Xander looked towards the raven-haired beauty. "Honey, I think maybe we aren't welcome anymore. Let's make like a tree and leave."


	12. Chapter 12

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (12/?) **

****

"Gaaaaaa! Noooo! Ahhhhh!"

Finally the screaming fell silent. A second later and woodshed door swung open, Anatole Theron striding out, a smug expression on the 'Prey-Sniffer' leader's face. "Well?" Vistro demanded, eyes expectant.

He waited more or less impatiently as the recently recruited Parhean diligently cleaned his knife before replying. "He cursed, then he screamed, then he talked, then he screamed so more." The Parhean chuckled. "Then he died."

"But what did he say?" Vistro seethed.

His fellow bounty-hunter started at his curt tone. "Most of the twelve left the rebel stronghold a Ten-Day ago. The one called Angel has taken Connor and Illyria to the north under the guidance of Diokete Xulon, to the Highlands. Bellator Proelium," Vistro started at the mention of one of the legends of his youth, eyes dropping to his left hand, wincing at the missing finger Bellator had cost him twenty years ago, "has taken Faith and Xander to Urad to search for the Keenest Blade. Wood and Groosaluug have headed south in Shem with Jabari Aren." A shocked mutter ran through the sixty warriors behind him at the mention of the legend. Brave men quaked and cowered when Jabari strode past. " And the rest of the twelve bar Rupert and Willow are heading towards Ishanti, seeking out Ka'Tra Swiftsword."

"Jabri Aren, Bellator Proelium, Diokete Xulon, Ka' Tra Swiftsword. These twelve have the unsettling habit of drawing formidable allies to their side," Vistro mused.

"Aye," Tod Nacht agreed. "And how do you plan to deal with these rebels?"

"Wood and the Groosaluug are the least of our concerns," Vistro judged. "As they're together, we'll leave them until last. Tla' Ra, you're going home. Take your men and go after the group heading into Ishanti. Tod, take yours and Antaloe's men and go after Angel's group. I'm going after Bellator." He glanced at his hand again before looking towards the watching mercenaries. "Remember you have the authority to use any resources you need to get the twelve."

* * *

"You're saying she deserted?"

"Aye, mi'lord, she ordered us to ride into battle against the Clear-Bloods, when we refused, she rode off anyway."

"Impudence," Andros muttered, his blood beginning to boil. Xulon had dared desert him? A message had to be sent. He looked around. "Have word passed to everyone, all my gangs, even those who dare oppose me. Five thousand sovereigns to the man who brings her to me! Ten thousand if she's still alive!"

"I would be very interested in collecting that reward."

Andros' eyes shot across the shadowy tavern. The speaker was a tall, curvy woman with curved lips, flashing green eyes, and pony-tailed blonde hair. A woman of her beauty dressed in a black brigandine and a man's leather breeches with a rapier fastened around her tiny waist should look ridiculous, and yet she didn't. "And who might you be?"

"Invidia Kultus, formerly of the Clear-Bloods," the blonde smiled. "However that career is behind me, and my fellows and I would be very interested in a more profitable one."

* * *

Decorus Mors glanced around as he entered the darkened room, skin crawling. There was something wrong with the situation. As

Leader of The Shadow Fang, and former prized assassin, he felt it. His hand edged towards his knife sheathed on his waist.

"Has our relation fallen so far, dearheart?"

Mors' blood chilled, although he struggled not to show it. Only two men scared him, one was his emperor, the other was the owner of

that giggling, high-pitched voice. "I see you received my message, but I thought I said to meet you tomorrow night?"

The shadowed killer giggled. Even after all this time, he'd never seen Piccata Torta's face. "Just keeping my hand in, after all, one day

your master might send me after you."

Mors ignored that comment with another effort. "I have a mission for you, a matter of great urgency."

"Then give me my assignment, there's blood to be spilt."

Mors swallowed at the hungry eagerness in his subordinate's voice. He'd always approached his assignments with a cool detachment,

but Piccata Torta was something alien to him. But on the other hand he was also the man known as 'Reaper's Shadow' and 'Death's

Hand', the Empire's most feared killer.

* * *

Azarel strode up and down his throne room, eyes spitting flames at his cowering audience. "Two Ten-Days! Two Ten-Days and not one of the targets I set you has been captured or killed! I am far from happy!"

"Oh great one-."

"Did I give you leave to speak!" A single look set Veritas Callidus convulsing on the paving stones, spittle spewing out of her mouth and face purpling as she struggled to breathe. Azarel's pleasure only increased when none of 'The Dread Supremacy' as his inner circle were known moved to aid the violently thrashing woman. United, they might be a threat to him, alone they were useful but hardly a danger, and so he kept them divided, plotting against one another.

A click of his fingers ended the curse. Turning to the others, he scowled. "Well, Malus?"

"T…the Hordsemen are scouring the empire, blanketing the nations for any sign."

"Um," Azarel pursed his lips together before turning to the head of The Purge. "Areox Lex?"

Areox stiffened at his impatient tone. "I've engaged the empire's four major bounty hunting groups to track down the twelve."

"I have very specific orders regarding the capture of certain members of the twelve," Azarel warned. "Should they fail to be obeyed, both the bounty hunters and you will incur my wrath." Azarel directed his gazer towards The Shadow Fang's leader. "And you Decorus, what have you done?"

"I've ascertained that the one called Rupert Giles is ensconced in the rebel stronghold. While the rebel leaders are all under heavy guard, he is largely left alone, offering his advice and studying our culture and history. And so I've sent Piccata Torta to kill him."

Azarel nodded approvingly. Finally one of his commanders was thinking, showing a little initiative. "And Dotos, what of the witch? What of her power?" Dotos paled at his impatiently clicking tongue. "Speak!"

"She has considerable power," the witch took a faltering breath. "Perhaps as much as you, your greatness."

It took an effort, but Azarel managed to reign in his temper and pride. "And what do you plan to do about this formidable force?"

"I…I've sent Ladrans Kuru to deal with her," Dotos replied, her eyes nervous.

After a second Azarel nodded. "This is," for a second he considered his next words, "sufficient, barely. But I would strongly advise you all not to rest on your laurels. Now, get out."

Only when the last of his followers had hurried out of the throne room did Azarel allow himself a wintry smile. The Hordsemen, the Purifiers, the bounty-hunters, assassins, and his beasts, all searching for the twelve. Against such numbers it was just a matter of time before they were run to ground.

* * *

Crucia Sequi chuckled as he strode around his darkened torture chamber, head bowed in thought. It was empty for the moment, but soon he would have some member of the unwashed to educate in the glory that was Azarel.

All around were the instruments his master had given him – the whipping posts, pliers, branding irons, hammers, thumbscrews, the rack, toe-screws, and so on, to illuminate his glory. And illuminate he had, blazing a blinding light with the examples he'd made. The tongues he'd gouged from rabble-rousing prophets. The limbs he'd torn from fiery rebel leaders. The minds and wills he'd broken of once incisive nobles and mages.

Yes, his smile widened, his quarters were some floors higher and very luxurious. But this, he reached down to caress a blood-flecked whip's ivory handle, this was his true home.

Sequi looked up as the door crashed open and a pale-faced acolyte hurried in. "Blessed Father, a group of Truth-Givers in southern Parhea were attacked by rebels!"

"Blasphemers!" Sequi was at once both out-raged and elated by the news. These miscreants would have to be punished. "What information do you have on these infidels?"

"Information received indicates the attacker was one of the Twelve-."

"Oh splendid!" Sequi cackled. "Better and better. Which one?"

"It was the one called Faith, accompanied by her lover."

Sequi thought his smile would crack his face in two. "Alert our agents, such sacrilege cannot go unpunished."

The acolyte blinked. "Blessed Father, the emperor-."

"Is a benevolent and understanding god. He will acknowledge this insult gives us the right. I want Faith and her mate as one, torturing couples together is such a delicious delight. Seeing the one they love destroyed breaks a person in a way no instrument of torture can ever hope to match. But anyone with them is of no interest. Now go," he shooed the fresh-faced youth away. "Post the orders through the seer web."

"Yes, Blessed Father," the boy nodded before bolting.

Sequi smiled beatifically. Already he was making plans just what to do with the two infidels. Once he'd finished the young man's eye would make a captivating pendant. And the girl, he chuckled, once he'd heard her screams, what to do with her? She had the most beautiful skin he'd ever seen.

It would make the most magnificent wall-hanging.


	13. Chapter 13

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (13/?) **

****

Xulon watched her group's leader with interest. He was a tall powerful man with a grace and agility that would have been extraordinary in a man half his size. She'd know many men in her lifetime, but none with his presence or looks.

Still, Xulon mused, he was a strange one. Most warriors she knew were loud, pugnacious even, but he was unusually quiet, either if he didn't need to boast or as if carrying a great weight. Yes, he was definitely intriguing. His companions were equally strange, a skinny youth with the older man's poise, and an imperious blue-haired woman.

Strange companions for an unusual mission that her brother and her quartet of remaining people were accompanying them on. The highlanders were a fierce people for a rugged land who even now guarded their independence as best they could. They were a people who little liked outlanders.

"We'll camp here," declared Angel.

Xulon looked around. They were up against a small incline with a watery pool two hundred paces to their left, and a small copse behind them. All in all, a perfect hidey hole. "Xulon, if you don't mind, could you and your people help me set up the camp, only my son and Illyria don't know much about-." 

"Actually I've got memories of vacations in the Rockies and the Carolinas when I was a kid," the skinny youth.

"Oh, okay," their leader looked uncomfortable. "In that case, how about you start setting up a fire?"

Later that night Xulon joined as he sat guard, crouched on the edge of their camp's perimeter. "You seemed surprised by your son's experiences?"

Despite her stealthy approach from behind, the man didn't start at her voice. "We've been separated until recently. It's complicated."

"Oh." Somewhat stymied by the man's abrupt reply, she walked around and sat down facing him. "You realise the highlanders are a stubborn people who will take some persuading to join us. How do you intend to get their help?"

The man's answering smile was wintry. "I intend to make them an offer they can't refuse."

* * *

Mate Dane sidestepped a sword-thrust before slamming a back-hand home. His rival's face disintegrated into a bloody mess under his hammer blow, his adversary falling soundlessly away.

Another came at him with a downwards sword swing that he caught on his buckler before shoving his war-hammer into the Hordesman's leg. Bone shattered and the man screamed before toppling backwards.

Pain blazed through his left side as another Hordesman slashed across his ribs. Ignoring his hurt, Mate crashed an elbow into his opponent's face before twisting at the waist and smashing his war-hammer into the man's head. And then it was all over, bodies of dead and dying Highlanders interspersed with Hordesmen.

"We beat them," growled one of his subordinates.

"Aye," Mate nodded brusquely.

"Chief Dane, you're wounded," cried one of the healers scurrying up from behind the lines. "Let me dress your-."

"No time for that!" he snapped. "They've founded our hiding place, when their force doesn't return, more will be sent. Order camp to be mobilised."

* * *

Wood kept his eyes fixed on the two men before him.

The smaller came in fast, sliding under the larger one's decapitating axe-swing with a devastating grace. The smaller figure's sword came up only to be parried on the giant's mammoth broadsword. The dwarfed warrior leaned back at the waist, allowing the giant's retaliatory broadsword thrust to impale the air above.

The shorter figure darted backwards, but the towering fighter charged relentlessly on. The smaller figure somersaulted backwards, feet kicking out to crash into the on-coming warrior's broad chest.

The mammoth warrior fell to one knee, axe swinging up to parry a cleaving swing while simultaneously thrusting his sword at his rival. The shorter man kicked at the giant's sword-arm, point of his boot crashing into the other man's wrist.

The giant's sword dropped from his hand. A scowl on his face, the giant lunged to his feet, axe swinging at his adversary's head. The smaller warrior's sword came up parrying the attack inches from his neck. The man's free hand smashed into the giant's jaw, knocking him back a step.

Now it was the shorter warrior who was on the attack, lunging forward with his blade leading the charge. The axeman slapped away the sword attack but was helpless to avoid a pair of blurring left hooks to the jaw. The man dropped like a felled ox. The big man started up again the moment he hit the ground only to be stopped by the point of his opponent's blade at his throat. "Do you yield?"

For a moment the giant glared up at his conqueror. And then he let out a bellowing laugh. "Never before have I fought such an opponent!" Jabari looked towards Wood. "Do you have the mettle to challenge on the Groosaluug?"

"I'll pass," Wood raised a hand in supplication. "A wise man knows when he is over-matched."

"But how are you to improve if you do not train with those better than you?" Groosaluug asked before beckoning him forward.

Wood groaned before rising. "Why did I have to get stuck with Kull the Conqueror and Conan the Barbarian?"

* * *

"How many did we lose?" the man standing behind him stiffened at his glacial tone, a tone far too cold for their tropical surroundings. "How many, Kasam?"

"Eighty-seven warriors dead, another thirty won't fight again. Nearly a hundred women and children gone."

Akuii Anwar closed his eyes, gaze fixed on the sprawling camp beneath the cliff ledge he was stood upon. The encampment housed 50,000 but that was but a tenth the size of their capital and not even a fiftieth the size of their national population. There were other camps dotted throughout their jungle lands, but he doubted that much more than two thirds of their population lived, and most of them were enslaved.

"A time is going to come when we'll have to move," Kasam continued. "And then we'll have to consider leaving the infirm behind."

"No!" Akuii snapped. "We've left too many of our people behind. Everybody comes or we all stay!"

"As you say my lord." Kasam heard but ignored the disapproval in his advisor's voice. Obedience was all that was required. "And there is another matter." The older man paused. "The Viewers report that they see Jabari returning."

Akuii smiled finally. "That is good news. Then my brother's killer is dead."

"No."

Akuii scowled and spun to face his advisor. "And yet he returns? With his oath unfulfilled? Kill him!"

The advisor blanched. "But he returns with powerful allies-."

"Kill them too!" he thundered.

* * *

"Ach, a pretty little thing who doesn't know what she's-."

Kennedy shot Tachy Marcello a disgusted look before looking towards Torvas. "Does he ever shut up?"

The weather-beaten man chuckled before shooting his head. "Not when he's around a pretty lady."

"That's what I figured," Kennedy made a scene of turning away from the supposedly dashing cavalry officer to the grizzled but infinitely more likable infantry soldier. "So these Ishanti, what are they like?"

"The Ishanti is a vast nation, made up of competing cities called Houses. Before the war, every House is ruled by a family of nobles and before the conquest, they vied constantly for commerce, land, and political influence. If not for their constant feuding, they could have been the world's dominant power."

"And what about this resistance leader?" she asked.

"The stories say Ka'Tra Swiftsword is the finest swordsman in the generation, but whatever the truth he has untied what remains of the Ishanti nobility in a spirited resistance to the empire." The infantryman paused. "He's a ruthless bastard though. Anyone who opposes either the rebellion itself or anyone who opposes his leadership disappears."

"Oh great," Kennedy scowled. And this was the person they were supposed to recruit?

* * *

Ka'Tra motioned calmly to the two Ishanti stood at the opposite side of the alley. At the far end he'd stationed another trio. All they had to do was wait and a Purifier patrol would pass by, right into their ambush.

Ka'Tra stiffened as the sound of marching boots floated to him on the cold night. Forcing himself to relax, he eased his sword free of its sheath, its oiled scabbard ensuring the weapon slid soundlessly out. A moment of two later and eight Purifiers strode into the alley, marching two by two.

The moment the last of the patrol entered the alley, Ka'Tra blurred into action. Leaping forward, his arm muscles flexed up in a reverse cut to take the hand of the nearest Purifier, gore gushing out to splatter the nearest wall.

Even as the man fell, Ka'Tra glided onto the next, the battle's beginning clamour filling his ears. Ka'Tra dropped into a crouch, allowing his wide-eyed opponent's sword impale the air just to the left of his ear. Upon rising, he skipped away from an attempted disembowelling before jamming a hastily drawn dirk into his rival's neck.

A shocked look on his face, the Purifier fell against the wall before sliding down to the cobbles, a smear making his passing. Looking to his left, Ka'Tra saw another Purifier charging him and turned nimbly to face the man. His adversary's eyes widened when he parried the Purifier's blade down before sliding his short sword between his rival's ribs and twisting. The Purifier grunted, his weapon clattering to the ground as he likewise fell to his knees.

Seeing another Purifier charging him, this time from the right, he danced away. The moment his slower-reacting foe committed himself to a lunge, Ka Tra grabbed a hold of the swordsman's wrist and twisted.

His rival's scream was cut-off by the palm Ka'Tra smashed into his throat and knee he rammed into his groin. The gurgling man slumped to his knees, easy prey to Ka'Tra's decapitating slash utilising the man's own hastily scooped up sword.

And then it was over. The blood-drenched alley was littered with eight Hordesmen corpses, and, Ka'Tra scowled, two of his men. Four of them for every one of his. But if it was double that, they'd still lose through sheer weight of numbers.


	14. Chapter 14

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (14/?) **

Faith glided effortlessly through her kata, juggling her twin blades with deadly ease. The moment she'd finished, she spun to face her observer. "See anything ya like?"

The beauty's cocksure grin had Bellator chuckling. "You are formidable, even in my youth I could not do half the things you do, and yet you say you're not your world's foremost warrior?"

"There's some better than me." Faith shrugged, an uncomfortable look on her sultry features. "Angel, maybe. Illyria for sure." The Slayer grimaced. "One other." 

"Not a friend?" he queried.

"'Bout as far as ya can get away from bein' a friend and not be an actual enemy," Faith shook her head, raven tresses swishing in the air. "What about this Kraft dude, he ain't got no issues with ya has he?"

"Not any longer," he evaded. Faith raised an eyebrow and stared hard at him. "We were both amongst the candidates to be the next leader of The Keenest Blade, but I left before the issue came up." Bellator momentarily paused, lost in time's strong tides. "He might be concerned I'm coming back to challenge his leadership."

Faith winked at him. "Looks like you're lucky I'm here to watch your back."

"Indeed," Bellator nodded at the waist. "Now shall we go and wake your lover."

Faith sighed. "He's still asleep?" The Slayer beauty shook her head and sighed. "Wait, that was snoring and not a herd of elephants I heard?"

Bellator failed but failed to hide his smile. "I'm afraid so, my dear."

"Damn, and G wonders why I don't hear him sometimes, sleepin' next to that din."

* * *

"The tracks lead to the east, towards Urad."

Vistro Tokamak nodded at his tracker's report. He looked over his shoulder, towards the dozen or so men behind him. They were a cold-eyed, battle-scarred lot with not a virtue between them. Finally, he returned his gaze to the tracker. "How far ahead are they?"

"Less then half a day," the tracker replied. "If we push it, we'll probably reach them by tomorrow night."

"Excellent. Remember," he warned. "The men are to die, but not the girl. She's to be unharmed."

"Aye, she's quite the prize," laughed one of his men. "She'll keep us entertained on the way back."

"She's not for our entertainment," he reminded his men. "The emperor has first claim to her. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the emperor. Now, come on."

* * *

Wood gasped as he stared down onto a sea of green. For as far as he could see there was nothing but thick trees, steam rising up from the sweltering jungle.

"Is it not glorious?" rumbled Jabari. Wood glanced at the giant Shem. "My homeland is beautiful is it not?" The Shem sighed. "But don't let its beauty fool you, there are many dangers within its borders. Spike Cats, Horned Fire-Breathers, Six-Claws, Three-Step Snakes, Spitting Thorn-Plants, Pitfall Suckers, The Venomed Tentacles, and swamplands too. It is a land filled with hazards," the shem's chest puffed out even further, "a land where only the fittest can survive and prosper!"

"It sounds like a challenge worthy of a warrior does it not Robin?" enthused Groo, sapphire eyes gleaming.

"Can hardly wait," murmured Wood before wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Sometimes he wondered if Groo wasn't 'challenged'.

* * *

Kasam Morati strode into the general's tent. "Have you heard Alem's orders?"

Alem looked up at his entry. "I have," replied the last of the emir's warlords. The general was a typical Shem male, thick-slabbed muscle and towering height combined with an implacable will to survive. Alem's hair was greying in places, but his brown eyes still burnt with life's fire.

"And what do you intend to do about it?" Kasam demanded, the horror of just what his ruler had demanded still haunting him.

"I," the warlord paused, broad shoulders briefly slumping, "intend to do my duty."

"You can't!" he hissed. "Jabari's this nation's champion! He's one of our best chances for freedom!"

"He!" The warlord's voice cracked like a whip. After a long, drawn-out breath, the general continued, his tone more under control. "He has failed to complete his Emir-ordered duties, it is the Emir's right to order this-."

"But the sense," Kasam interrupted, "surely it would-."

"It is not our place to question the Emir!" Alem's snap was followed by a softer tone. "Look my old friend, I understand your reservations. But the Emir has spoken, and that is that."

Kasam's mouth opened and shut, then he sighed wearily, sensing the argument was moot in the mind of his friend. Obedience of the Emir was so engrained in the Shem tribes, that even after their civilisation's fall his word went unquestioned amongst the rebels. "Who are you sending?"

The warlord stared at him for a long second before replying. "Duka Jelani, and Belay and Dume Gamba."

Kasam sighed. Jabari Aren was the Shem nation's finest warrior, but the three warriors that Alem had just named weren't far behind him in notoriety and skills. "Do you have-."

"No questions!" his friend snapped, eyes hardening. "They've already left, as our emir has demanded. No more discussion!"

* * *

Kultus looked around, eyes narrowing as she observed the camp her and her companions had surrounded. There was something wrong, something she couldn't put her finger on. Reassuring herself that she had the camp out-numbered four to one, she raised her hand to signal an attack.

* * *

"We're surrounded."

Xulon gasped as Angel glided into position behind her, the inter-dimensional traveller supposedly asleep while her and her brother took the first half of the night's guard. "I haven't seen or heard anything," she hissed as her eyes vainly searched the surrounding darkness. "And neither I or my brother have fallen asleep."

"Nevertheless they're there," Angel retorted. "You stay here, I'll awaken your men."

"What about yours?" hissed Xulon. "And what about those watching us?"

Angel chuckled. "My people are already awake. As for our friends, don't worry. They won't see me." Xulon opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a syllable the mysterious man had melted back into the darkness leaving her to wonder just how

he managed that.

Even as she pondered the mystery, the surrounding woods erupted into life. Xulon gasped as Angel exploded to his feet, charging to meet a trio of bulky-shouldered thugs brandishing axes. The man was a blur as he ducked and stepped inside an axe swing of the bandit to his right while simultaneously kicking the middle bandit full in the face, teeth spraying everywhere. Even as the bandit fell away, his face a bloody mask, Angel cupped the nearest thug's head in his hands and twisted, the crack of his neck snapping echoing throughout the night.

The remaining thug attempted a back-handed axe swing. Xulon gasped again when Angel snatched a hold of the axe's shaft and tore it out of his grip, flinging the axe blade-first into a near-by tree before butting the man full in his face, his opponent's nose shattering under the impact. The injured bandit staggered backwards, blood flooding down his face and chest, Angel putting him down with a flawlessly executed spin-kick.

Another thug charged the warrior from behind, sword thrusting at the man's kidneys. Angel twisted away from the attack. The sword sliced across the man's lower back even as he spun into a heel kick that connected with the side of the bandit's head, knocking him to the ground. Xulon shuddered as she saw the man's eyes momentarily flicker golden as he leapt into a drop kick into the chest. Across from Angel, she could see Illyria and Connor tearing through the bandits, beating them with an inhuman ease.

She had a far bigger question to ask now. Just what were her companions?

* * *

"Greetings sage Rupert, may I come in?"

Giles stared uncertainly at the noble stood framed in the doorway, his bodyguard lurking behind, not quite sure how the rules regarding vampires worked here. Of course, if Angel didn't combust in the sunlight, he could be reasonably sure that the invitation rule was probably waived. Still, he slid a hand inside his jacket as he nodded.

"Thank you," Earl Fortis strode into the small apartment the resistance had loaned him, and sat opposite.

After a silence, Giles spoke, asking the question that tortured his every moment. "Have you heard any reports about my companions?"

"I'm afraid not." The noble half-smiled. "They're rather more than just your colleagues aren't they?"

"I find to be an effective leader, one has to care about those he commands," Giles smiled wryly. "But Willow and Xander are like my own children. I also have a certain fondness for Faith, Kennedy, Vi, and Rona. Angel and his group, I don't particularly know, but they're more than competent at what they do, and eminently trustworthy. "

"It's a task all of its own, isn't it?" Giles raised an eyebrow at the noble's oblique question. The earl chuckled. "Being a leader, being forced to sit by and wait while others fight your battles for you.

"Oh yes." A wave of pain crashed over him as he remembered the early days with Buffy, worrying about her, but being helpless to do anything to aid her. The teams that everyone worked in today for made things somewhat safer, but he still worried. "It is difficult."

Difficult beyond measure.

The earl chuckled at his evident distress. "Then perhaps," the noble produced a bottle of wine from under his cape, "you'd had best bolster your spirits then by reminding yourself just how accomplished your friends are. Petro told me you and your companions have had considerable adventures. I'd be honoured to hear them."

Giles forced a smile as the earl poured two glasses of wine. "And I'd be honoured to share them."

* * *

"Oh such high walls, such strong guards," Piccata Torta giggled as he stared on the shadow-shrouded rebel stronghold. "They'll avail you little though Rupert Giles." He giggled again, excitement pumping through his veins at the thought of another kill. "The question is will you quietly cross into death's embrace. Or will you sob and plead?" In the end though, it wouldn't matter, the inter-dimensional traveller would still be dead. 


	15. Chapter 15

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (15/?) **

****

"Damn," Faith whispered as she looked around. The town just ahead looked derelict, the walls surrounding it having fallen in several places, and the buildings inside in a similar state of disrepair. Worse still was the dull air that seemed to surround the town. She looked towards their guide for guidance. "What the hell happened here?"

"The Urads are hardy people, a race that bend but don't break," Bellator spat on the ground. "At least they didn't. Azarel bombarded their cities for seasons. First, the Shadow Fang, sneaking in at night to slay the country's political, business, and military leaders as they slept. Then came Wanax's beasts, his monsters pillaging the nation's forests, decimating the smaller villages, destroying their crops and polluting their rivers. Next was the Howling Hordes, laying siege to towns and cities just like the one ahead. Still the Urads clung on, forcing the Hordes to fight for every inch. Then, the emperor himself entered the fray, decimating walls with a single glance and burning cities to the ground with a gesture. Now the Purge and Magic-Tamers work almost without impediment, the practically entire nation cowed."

"Jesus," Faith shivered at the image laid out by Bellator's grim recital, "this Azarel bastard is hardcore." Things could be pretty bad in their world, but this was a terrifying insight into just how much worse things could be.

"Indeed," Bellator nodded.

"That's why we're here," Xander commented from the other side of Bellator, "to stop him."

"Yeah," Faith snorted sceptically. "Good luck with that." Faith glanced towards their guide. "You said the Keenest Blade still operate here, how in the hell do they manage that?"

"Probably not as easily as they'd like," Bellator replied with a sour smile. "They assassinate Azarel-appointed officials, disrupt tax collections, ambush Purge patrols, and snatch mages before the Magic-Tamers get to them."

"They must be continually mobile to do all that," commented Xander. "How are we supposed to find them?"

"You wouldn't." Bellator smiled as he looked towards the city. "That's why you need me."

Faith shivered again as they entered the city, its dark dreariness and pervading depressing air combining to press down on her chest, crushing her. A dank mist shrouded the city in an unforgiving darkness. Torches flared in the city's murky streets as the city held their nightly, riotous carnival, uninhibited by the laws and social conventions that restrained any society with rules or values; all those had been swept away in the carnage. Along the crooked, unpaved streets with their heaps of stinking refuse and sloppy puddles drunken revellers staggered, oblivious of the glinting daggers awaiting them in the shadows. Shrill laughter of whores, accompanied by the sound of frenzied couplings, echoed through the winding streets. Lurid torchlight flickered through dirty and broken windows and flung-open doors, and out of these doors the smell of bitter wine and stale, sweaty bodies and the sound of raucously obscene songs and rough laughter rushed out like a hammer blow to the head.

Kinda reminded her of a weekend she spent in the Bronx back in her pre-Slayer days. 

Suddenly Bellator pulled up his horse and looked toward her and Xander. "This way," he growled before starting down an alley, Faith's eyes furrowing as she noted a strange diagram scratched on the wall's left corner. The road turned into a T-junction, their guide doggedly leading them left down an alley so narrow that they had to go one at a time, and then left up a wider hill road before finally coming to a stop outside an alehouse on the left.

"That diagram back at the alley," Faith leapt off her horse before continuing. "That was a message wasn't it?"

"Most astute," Bellator praised, a wry smile tugging at his weathered face. "The Keenest Blade always had a code, a way of communicating when we're cut off and behind enemy lines."

"I thought you said Malus Bellum used to be a member?" Xander queried. "Couldn't he have taught it to outsiders?"

"Ha!" Bellator chuckled. "You kids don't miss much do you?" The old soldier's expression sobered. "When Bellum turned traitor, all the codes were changed."

"And what did that code say?" Faith queried.

"It said that any one seeking information on The Keenest Blade should follow the road to the left until they reached the first inn, then ask there." Bellator glanced up at the inn. "And here we are."

"Yeah," Faith glared up at the looming three-storey building. Like the rest of the city it had seen better days, soot clung to it like a second skin, obscuring the letters on the sign that hung over the dirty double doors, while the sound of forced revelry and slightly over-cooked food floated through its cracked windows.

"Remember the story," Bellator prompted as they headed towards the stables at the back of the inn.

"You're an older Keenest Blade member sponsoring your son and daughter for membership," Xander replied, voice taut with tension. "We remember."

* * *

Sweat leaked down Wood's face, the dank, sultry air making it difficult for him to breathe. Wood glared at his two companions, noting they weren't suffering under the same restrictions he was. 

Wood shook his head as he looked around, mind boggling at the seemingly ceaseless green. As a New Yorker he could barely comprehend some much green.

Jabari's hand snapped up, the giant Shem coming to a halt and dropping to a crouch. "What is it?" Wood started slightly, his own whisper sounding very loud in the jungle's sudden darkness.

Jabari's head snapped towards him, the Shem's volcanic glare silencing him before turning back to the front. The Shem began to rise.

And leapt back when a huge machete swung through the undergrowth, missing his head by inches.

* * *

Xulon licked her lips, eyes fixed on the man leading them. They were deep in the Border-Lands, the wild area of land that had for centuries kept the Highlanders' teeth from their throats until a far fouler monster had devoured both their lands. The barren lands' winds whipped at them, but only he and the blue-haired one called Illyira seemed unfazed by it.

All around were the wastelands, warped caricatures of trees and hedges sitting on an ash-grey landscape, shadows permanently shifting as if some creature hid in them.

Perhaps even Ferals.

Xulon shuddered at the thought. She was still breathing so obviously she'd never met a Feral, and had no wish to do so, but she'd heard stories. It was said that centuries they'd be humans, simple villagers living in what was now the Border Lands. Then something, some suspected a spell, had occurred, warping the land and its inhabitants. Now what creatures remained were all predators, and the Ferals with their combination of numbers, human cunning, animal savagery, and inhuman strength were top of the food chain.

Ferals wore the skins of their kills and feasted indiscriminately on anyone or anything that entered the Border Lands. Many had tried to settle it, desperate for somewhere to live that was free of anyone's rules, but until the Emperor had led his legions across, mercilessly killing any Feral that got in their way, none had managed to traverse the Border Lands.

Xulon shivered. Their group was too small, too small to make this journey safely. Even now she could feel the shadows closing in on her-.

Xulon shook her head, re-focusing on the handsome mystery riding beside her. Anxious for anything to take her mind off the Ferals, she confronted the enigma. "What are you?" she demanded. "The question's been plaguing me since that night with the bounty hunters. You move too fast, it's not possible-."

"It is if you're me." The man turned to her, eyes steady. "Myself and my companions aren't normal. Illyria is," the man smiled wryly, "or at least was, a member of a race of gods that once ruled my world but was banished eons ago. She returned through magic in a lesser form in the body of an old friend. I'm," the man's eyes hardened to obsidian, "a demon, the worst of my kind until I was given a human soul. Now I fight-." Suddenly the man was leaping from his horse diving for the darkness.

Xulon gasped as a wiry shap leapt from the shadows to meet the 'demon', its face all wide eyes and slavering teeth, the air filling with its snarls and her nostrils with its stench.

The Ferals were here.

* * *

"We're here."

Kennedy glanced up at the circular walled town before them. The town had a classical, Oriental like beauty, with more than few spires peeking out from behind its walls, piercing the swirling clouds up above. Inside was more of the same, flowing-lined almost delicate looking buildings interspersed with the grubby houses of the peasants.

The city that their escort led them into was filled with narrow, barely two abreast, and winding streets with plenty of spots ideal for ambush. "Perfect siege city," Kennedy muttered, eyes flitting left and right as he noted the citizens' wary faces as they passed by. She also noticed the lack of happily-playing children, common to all the villages and towns they'd passed through, clearly House Flash-Dagger was a city bathed in fear.

"It was here the Hordes first hit," Kennedy glanced towards Torvas, the former infantry soldier's face etched in grimness. "The Ishanti have a military that grew up fighting and killed four for every one they lost, but it mattered little, the Howling Hordes outnumbered them by twelve to one, the city fell within the Ten-Day, and they moved on to more major houses."

Kennedy grimaced as she heard feet scurrying to her left and looked into the shadows to see rats at the feet of an one-armed beggar. "Why are we here?" she whispered.

"'Tis the nearest House to the border," muttered Trachy, the normally carefree cavalry officer looking drawn. "We'll try here for news of the resistance."

"Bar," Torvas grunted before ducking through an arched doorway.

The bar within was brightly illuminated, light coming from lanterns dangling from the roof, each one coloured differently so to cause a sort of medieval strobe lightning. The tables were at knee height, the patrons lounging on cushions sprawled across the floor, and served drinks by delicate-featured beauties clad in flowing, barely-there silks. "Keep your mind on the job, yo."

Kennedy tore her eyes away from one particularly alluring serving wench to glare at Rona. "Funny."

"I thought so," her grinning fellow-Slayer agreed.

"I'll ask some -."

The door behind them swung open and a hatchet faced man strode in, half a dozen hard-faced men striding behind him. "Time for this month's protection," the leader declared, his eyes zeroing in on her. "Foreign lasses? Hope you're not moving in new talent without checking first. You know all girls have to be checked first."

Torvas smiled uneasily. "Gentle sir, we're just visitors to your fine land, we don't want any tro-."

"Well you've got some," the men's leader snapped. "Grab them."

* * *

Giles sighed as he reached the darkened room that his fellow resistance fighters had so kindly given him. It was hardly luxurious, he mused as he lit its solitary candle. Just a simple bed in a quiet room at the back of an inn.

But it was probably a lot better than any of his charges with the exception of Willow would enjoy tonight. "Not even a roof over some of their heads I shouldn't wonder," he muttered with a baleful glance at the low-beamed ceiling.

He was getting old, he shook his head. No that wasn't it, all this worry was making him old.

"That's what fathers do," he muttered, voice heavy with longing. His eyes narrowed as a shadow to his left seemed to shift. Normal eyes wouldn't have caught it, but one accustomed to battling vampires and training Slayers couldn't afford to have merely normal eyes. He reached with a studied casualness for the cosh he'd placed on the table beside the stick.

And then something lunged out of the shadows.


	16. Chapter 16

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (16/?)**

The crowded inn was filled with raucous noise. Poor ventilation combined with the crackling heath at the far end of the bar meant that the tavern's interior was smoke-filled. The men sat around the inn's round tables, the majority of them wearing the rough-cut, mud-splattered clothes of labourers, supped moodily at their drinks. They only paused in their imbibing to bark for a refill off one of the buxom serving wenches or to curse at their luck at either cards or dice.

"Homey."

Xander grinned at his girl-friend's sarcastic whisper. "Kinda reminds you of the old wild west saloons," he replied.

Faith chuckled. "Kinda reminds me of some biker holes in Boston, 'cept the girls are wearin' more than was usual."

"By the abyss!" Xander joined Faith in glancing towards their guide, Bellator's eyes in turn fixed on a square-faced, pock-marked man with straggly grey hair and bitter brown eyes sat three tables deep ahead of them. "Vistro Tokamak, we need to get out of here now."

Bellator's words were whispered, but the man heard them anyway. "Oh I don't think so," the inn stilled as the man rose, his chair scraping against the wooden floor, eyes looking towards Faith. "One of the women the emperor wants, she's even prettier than her picture. You two though," the man's thin lips parted in a cruel smile, "you two can die."

Xander glanced over his shoulder, groaning at the fifteen or so armed men rising behind them. "Ah crap."

* * *

Giles gasped at his attacker's near-supernatural speed, the man was behind him and his cord wrapped around Giles' throat before he could react or reach the cosh. But not before he could tighten it, Giles' hands lightening up to grab the man's wrists and stop them pulling back before stepping back, snapping his head forward and then back, his skull smashing into the would-be assassin's face.

"Gaaaah!" The man grunted but to Giles' consternation failed to release his grip, instead he continued to pull it tighter. Desperation filling him, Giles swung his legs up and onto the side of the bed before shoving off with all his might.

The assassin stumbled but managed to keep his grip on Giles' neck, but Giles took advantage of the would-be killer's brief loss of balance to snap forward at the waist, and pull on the man's wrists. "Ahhh!" The killer flew over his shoulders and crashed into the wall opposite.

Eyes fixed on his would-be murderer, Giles gulped into some much-needed air even as he inspected the figure. The stranger was only short and thin, with a pinched and pock-marked face, and lank brown locks hanging down to his shoulders. An unremarkable-looking person but his eyes told the true story, they were cold and grey; he'd seen more life in a vampire's.

The man lunged at him, Giles catching him with a right that knocked him back with a stunned grunt. Giles smirked sourly. The first attack would have killed a normal man, but Giles' experiences with vampires had given him slightly better reflexes than normal and a certain hardiness; still it had been a close-run thing.

But a fair fight was something else entirely. He'd fought on London's cobbles on more than one occasion. His attacker was in for quite a surprise.

The killer came in fast, his right fist shooting out. Giles shifted his head to avoid the punch only to be caught by the true attack, a left to the jaw. He stumbled back, the assassin's teeth parting in victory as he ducked under Giles' retaliatory right.

Giles grunted as his adversary caught him with a knee to the gut. What little air that remained in him exploded out, his eyes blurring as he began to double up. Instinct had him reach up, grab a handful of his opponent's hair, feeling the grease between his fingers, and pull the man into a face rake. The would-be killer grunted and pulled away from Giles giving him the precious seconds he needed to regain his composure.

The man charged in again, leading with a thrust kick to the face that Giles slapped away before jumping in with a right to the side of the would-be killer's head. The man seemed to ignore Giles' attack, choosing to continue his own attack with a palm-strike to the chest.

"Bloody hell!" Giles grunted as he stumbled back, pain flaring in his chest. The man flashed him a near-maniacal grin before lunging in with a raised knee. The man's eyes widened when Giles hooked his arm around the knee, the second before he managed to pull his leg away giving Giles chance to gouge a thumb deep into the man's left eye.

"Ahhhhhh!" Giles winced at the slightly squishy sensation, but it was far worse for his adversary, letting out a pained scream he stumbled back a step, legs almost buckling. A savage grin spreading his lips, Giles grabbed the man's hair and yanked him towards him and full into a tooth-rattling right cross. Now the man's knees really did start to give way but Giles wasn't even close to finished, his foot swinging up to connect with the man's meat and two veg.

"By the-," the man croaked as he began to fall forward, Giles catching him in a front face lock. Ignoring the man's fists weakly punching at him, Giles twisted his arm, the man's neck snapping in reply. Satisfied the fight was over, he released his grip.

"I'm getting too old for this bollocks." Giles stumbled back onto the bed, eyes fixed on the dead man lying on the floor of his humble lodgings, one thought uppermost in his mind. "I need a bloody drink."

* * *

"Tavern harlots?" Kennedy sighed and shook her head. "Do I look like Faith?"

Rona snickered. "Now that you mention it-."

"Don't finish that sentence," Kennedy warned. "Look," she looked fearlessly at the thugs' leader, "we don't want any trouble-."

"Oh," the guy leered as he reached out to grab her face, "you won't be -,ughhh!"

"I tried." Kennedy grabbed the man's callused hand by the thumb and twisted it to the side, snapping the bone while yanking him into a kick to the testicles before pulling him past her and face-first into one of the inn's supports. Seeing the man's cohorts lunging for their weapons, she leapt at the nearest, grabbing his wrist as he grabbed at his blade and butting the man square in the face.

Even as his nose crunched, she was snatching up a bottle from a near-by table and slamming it into the side of the man's head. The moment her would-be assailant's eyes glassed over, Kennedy was moving on, ducking under a wild haymaker to catch her attacker with a knifehand to the throat, followed up by a knee to the face as the gurgling man fell to the floor.

And then it was over, her companions having finished off the rest of the thugs, those of the hoods that were still conscious lying on the ground groaning, the bar's other patrons having drawn back, eyes wide with fear and mouths hushed. Torvas stared at them all with wide eyes before nodding his head towards the back. "This way, through here."

* * *

Angel smelled the danger on the air, demonic instinct flinging from his horse to gleefully meet the threat. Angel's sword sliced the Feral's head off, blood fountaining out of its severed neck even as it fell away. Another lunged out of the shadows only for him to twist and meet it before it had even fully left the cloaking darkness. His sword slashed down, cleaving through the creature's skull, brains splattering out.

Another Feral leapt out of the shadows as he yanked his blade loose, a backhanded swing taking another head. Hearing a footfall behind him and not recognising the scent as belonging to one of his companions he allowed his momentum to carry him around, sword swinging in a circle and entering the back of his would-be assailant's head.

He had the briefest second to see the life die in the Feral's eyes and then he was dropping into a squat under a leaping Feral, grabbing the writhing, babbling creature as it flew overhead, and pulling it down onto his knee, its back shattering with a crunch. He'd not had chance to release the crippled Feral when he was forced to duck under a wild club swing from the left, his foot swinging out to crash into his attacker's chest.

Bone splintered under his attack, more of the Ferals swarming in, but none of them fast enough to avoid his blade, his movements a deadly blur as he dealt death with an abandon that Angelus would have envied.

And then it was over, corpses lying everywhere, a dozen of them by his hand, Illyria even more, and Connor scarcely less. "By the fates," Xulon whispered behind him, "what are you people?"

"I told you," he growled, the demon barely under control after such carnage, "not people."

* * *

Wood drew his sabre, ducking under a hacking slash that was surely intended to take his head off before looking around, jaw dropping open at what he saw, half a dozen leather breeched and linen shirted giants with swords in their hands and bad intentions in their minds. "The NFL would have a field day recruiting here," he mused as two of the men charged him.

Realising that retreating wasn't really an option, he lunged at the one to his left, kicking out at his nearest knee. Wood's eyes widened when his attempted attack bounced off the warrior's meaty thigh, his rival's free hand swinging up to catch him with a back-hand to the jaw that lifted him from his feet and dumped on his ass, his fall only cushioned by the jungle's long grass.

His other attacker lunged at him, sword flashing down. "Shit!" Wood flung himself to the right, rolling out of the way of the blade's descent before leaping up. His attacker grinned before leaping at him, his bulk belied by his cat-like grace. Pain reverberated through Wood's arm as he blocked another downward strike at him with his sword.

Sensing the other man charging in on his left, his sword already swinging down, Wood leapt to his right, putting his blood-crazed assailant between him and the other man. The man shuddered as his companion's blade sliced through him from behind, severing his left arm from his body, blood spewing everywhere as he stumbled to his knees, and then fell face-first to the grass, body shaking in its death throes.

The man's companion glanced down at his downed friend, eyes bulging in disbelief. The man's head had only just begun to come back up when Wood thrust his blade through the man's chest, blood vomiting from the wound.

* * *

Faith laughed at Xander's consternation. "Hey honey, it's only five to one!" she winked at her man before sobering and whispering. "Just stay safe stud."

And then she was leaping over the two nearest tables, dank air sweeping her hair back as she flew. Landing in a feline crouch, leaning forward with one hand on the table for unneeded extra balance, she smirked at the three thugs staring open-mouthed at her. "Yes boys," she purred, "I really did do that." Her left foot snapped out, taking the nearest one full in the face and propelling him out of the door she'd just sauntered through. "Boys," she beamed at the remaining duo, "wanna dance?"

Before either man could react she had the one in front of her by the throat, pulling him into a headbutt before contemptuously flinging him aside and over another table, customers, thug, and table crashing to the ground. "Bitch!" the third man lunged at her.

"Yeah," Faith elbowed him in the face and kicked him in the chest before leaping from the table and to the ground, "like I've NEVER been called that before."

Two more of the thugs charged her, Faith ducked under the first one's lunge, and then straightened, flipping him over her back and through the table. The other caught her with a clubbing right to the jaw. "Big mistake," Faith grabbed her assailant's wrist before he could pull away and twisted the wrist counter-clockwise. The man's scream when his wrist snapped turned into a croak when she kicked him in the nuts, her foot swinging behind her to repeat the manoeuvre on one of the men she'd already downed who'd made the mistake of getting back up and trying to sneak up on her.

Another man jumped at her only to crumple when a chair flung from somewhere within the now chaotic bar crashed into his shoulder, knocking him off-balance and into one of the inn's support beams. Faith herself was forced to duck when a tankard of beer flew over head. "Jeez," she muttered as she blocked another attacker's kick to her face on her arm, retaliating with a hard left to her attacker's inside knee, "what a waste."

Her assailant let out a gasp at her counter-attack, staggering slightly. Faith rose, blocked a left knee on her hip, ducked a right, grabbed the man under his chin, and flung him into the nearest wall. "Shit!" She grunted as a chair crashed into her back. "There's no need," she retaliated with a spin-kick that took the chair out of its wielder's, a six foot something bald muscle-man, hands, "to be rude."

Mouth beginning to open in a gasp, the man-mountain charged her. Faith grinned as she sidestepped the on-rushing avalanche and buried a hard right deep in the man's gut, man this was fun. The man gurgled as he began to double up, Faith primed herself for an elbow to the head.

And then someone attempted to grab her in a choke hold from behind. Faith snarled as she grabbed the man's beefy forearm, yanked it forward, and bent forward at the waist, flinging the man from her and headfirst into the wall. "Shit!" she grunted as the muscle-man caught her with a right to the side of her head. She'd give him maximum points for resiliency but zero for chivalry and good sense.

The man connected with a left hook to the side just below her chest, but Faith ignored the blow to leap into the air, pull her legs up into her chest and shoot them both back out, feet crashing into the muscle-man. All colour left his face as he doubled up like a folded deck-chair and flew into the wall, sliding down it to lie motionless on the ground.

Faith swung around when a hand landed on her shoulder, only to relax when it was Xan's. All around her the fight continued, the entire bar apparently drawn into the brawl, but Xan, Bellator, and the inn-keep were stood by her. "This way!" the portly bartender pointed to a hole in the wall behind the bar. "This way!"


	17. Chapter 17

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (17/?)**

Petro hurried down the corridor, floorboards creaking underfoot. Coming to a halt, he stared at the guard. "Is it true then?" he growled. "An assassin tried for Rupert Giles' life."

"Aye," the man licked his lips and hesitated.

"If you've something to add, now is the time," he prompted.

"Yes sir," the guard nodded. "There's a birth-mark on the corpse's left shoulder blade, it looks like a dagger and he had a dark rose in a belt pouch."

"By the fates," Petro felt the world tilt. "H…he couldn't have. Not Piccata Torta?" He shook his head. There wasn't a lot known about Piccata Torta, the emperor's much whispered about assassin, except his birth-mark and his habit of leaving a black rose as a calling card on his victims' corpses. One without the other was hardly conclusive, but together….

What manner of people were these strangers?

Gathering himself, he looked expectantly at the guard. "Open." The moment the door swung open, he was striding inside to find the 'Englishman' sat on the end of his bed, hands on knees. "Mr. Giles, I trust you are alright?"

"I'm fine," Petro noted the welts on the man's throat even as the inter-dimensional traveller waved his concern away, "one trying to murder one is tiresome though."

"Tiresome?" Petro numbly replied before gathering himself. These strangers were abyss-crazed mad men and lunatic warrior wenches the lot of them! "I can only apologise for this attack," Petro continued before pausing, "unfortunately it's been brought to my attention that two of the city's watchmen were murdered when your would-be killer broke into the town."

Giles shook his head and sighed, a look of immense weariness in the man's eyes. "Young men die while old ones live on, it seems that is the rule of wars throughout my world and yours." The 'Watcher' paused. "I don't suppose you'd fancy a drink."

"Of course," Petro turned towards the door. "I'll have some drinks brough-."

"Bloody hell no," his companion rose. "I'm not staying here. Come," the Englishman started towards the door, "I'm sure you'll know of an inn still open."

* * *

Faith looked left and right as they entered the inn's dust-laden tunnel, the passageway so narrow that Xander had to stand sideways to walk through. "Where do you plan to take us?" whispered Bellator.

The portly bartender grunted, his fat belly rubbing against the wall. If he got stuck, they were all fucked. "The passageway runs to the basement of another inn across the city, that passageway leads to the resistance, Slice-Hand."

"I know you?" Bellator queried, suspicion filling his voice.

"Aye, I've gained a few pounds since we were sword-brethren, Bellator." The bartender laughed hoarsely. "I see you still have rare success with the lassies!"

"She's with me." Faith smirked at the possessive note in her boy's voice. Darn tootin'.

"Aye?" The bartender chuckled. "That makes more sense. Bet that lass is a rare handful."

"Hey, stood right here," Faith snarked.

Suddenly Bellator let out a rumbling laugh. "Jager Zware, is that you?" the grizzled warrior snorted. "It's more than a few pounds you've put on!"

"And you've added a few lines," the inn-keeper retorted. "You find yourself in passin' strange company-."

"Honey," Xander put in, "he's talking about you."

"Really don't think so," Faith retorted. "Fine, hot, foxy, sexy, but never strange."

The inn-keeper shot her a bemused look before continuing. "And I'd heard you settled down in Parhea?"

"Aye, well I chose the wrong side in the rebellion, and things have taken a turn," Bellator grimly replied.

"Things that require your presence here?" queried Jager before laughing and shaking his head. "You know Kraft doesn't work well with others."

"He'll work with us," Xander grimly retorted.

"We'll see," the bartender replied as he came to a halt at a dead end, reached up and started climbing up some apparent rungs.

* * *

The alley Torvas led them into was shrouded in darkness, a cool wind blowing up it, lifting the rubbish up the street. Kennedy glanced over her shoulder, ears filling with the sound of approaching horses. "The Purge will here be soon," Travos prompted. "We need to get out of here fast."

"Okay," Kennedy replied as Vi and Rona fell in beside her, "what's the plan?"

"That's about it," Tachy replied, the dandy's face pale with shock, "how did you-."

"You've heard about our powers already," Kennedy snapped. "Focus."

"Very well," Tachy strode over to a rusted metal grille in the ground, revealing the sloshing dank waters beneath.

"Okay," Kennedy grimaced as the sewer's stench whafted up. This was going to majorly suck.

Forcing aside her reservations, she grabbed the metal rungs and crawled down into the tunnel, nose wrinkling as they crawled through mid-thigh high gunk, every sloshing step reminding her of their unfortunate circumstances. She was beginning to really hate this world.

"Here," their guide pointed his flaming torch up, illuminating the iron rungs fixed into the wall, leading up. "Must be a way out."

"Either that or someone's really taking the piss," Kennedy glanced at Rona. The African-American Slayer smirked at her. "Building steps here that lead no-where."

"Yeah," Kennedy smirked back at her friend, "would be just mean."

Despite Rona's reservations, they started up the steps, gasping with relief as they burst out of the drab tunnels and into the dark, but far fresher smelling city, more precisely a narrow alleyway just off a seemingly deserted and closed for the night market. "Okay," Kennedy glanced warily about as they stalked into the market, sticking close to the surrounding shadows, "now what?"

"Now we try and find someone with the resistance," Torvas replied.

* * *

"Well," Wood wiped the sweat from his forehead as he yanked his sword out of the dying man, "that was welcoming-."

"By the abyss!" Jabari Aren stepped past him and crouched by one of the men he'd down. "Belay Gamba!"

"Friends of yours?" Wood queried, the welcome had been sort of warm for friends, but Jabari had an abrasive personality.

"No," Jabari's mane swung as he shook his head. "But I know them, these are the guards of the Emir, his personal favourites. That is his brother Dume, they would not be here unless the Emir had ordered my execution."

Wood groaned, complication upon complication. "And why would he do such a thing?" queried Groo.

"My mission was to slay the Emperor, I was not to return until it was accomplished, but I have," Jabari explained as he rose. "The emperor must have heard of my return and ordered my execution for balking him."

Wood stared blankly at the Shem. Magic might have enabled him to understand the languages of this world, but their guide might as well have been talking Akkadian for all the sense he made. "But you're bringing allies, a way to perhaps permanently defeat the Emperor."

Jabari shook his head dolefully. "It won't matter to the Emir."

"No, but perhaps it matters to the rest of Shem."

The three of them spun to see a Shem of a similar height and build to Jabari, but distinguishable by the scar under his left eye and gap in his upper front teeth. "Duka," Jabari's voice was redolent with pain and sorrow. "Are you with them? Must I kill you too?"

The man identified as Duka chuckled humourlessly. "I was with them, but not in agreement, that's why I didn't attack with them. Is it true," the newcomer's eyes flashed over him and Groo, "are these warriors part of an alliance to overthrow the Emperor?"

"Aye," Jabari strode to face the other Shemite, only halting when he was about six feet from the man, "and mighty as these two are, they fight beside even mightier warriors. We hope to form an alliance of the Ishanti, the Highlanders, the Keenest Blade, the Parheans, and our people."

"And you agreed to bring them here?" Duka sighed at Jabari's sigh. "Very well, then I should escort you to the Emir's camp."

"But your vow?" Jabari pressed.

"My honour can take a few tarnishes if it saves our nation," Duka replied. "But you realise that to return to the Emir's camp without the Emperor's head will almost certainly mean yours and your companions' deaths? Not to mention mine for not slaying you on the spot."

Wood shook his head. That's what he liked about this world, the optimism. It was almost impossible to stop smiling around the natives, no really.

"There are other rebel camps," Jabari mused. "Perhaps we should go to them first, try and get an army together from them before approaching the Emir."

"This could mean civil war," Wood felt he had to warn.

"Friend Robin," Jabari stared bleakly at him. "What choice do we have left?"

* * *

Angel sighed when he saw the obstinate curiosity in the lady outlaw's eyes. "We'll talk on the move," he said, eyes searching the darkness. Probably only Connor could also see the shapes shifting in the stygian shadows, but that didn't mean they were any less there, far from it. The sooner they were at their target destination, the better.

Minutes later, they were back on their journey, the lady bandit doggedly beside him. "Well?"

"Once there was a lad, a womanising scoundrel to be honest," he admitted. "And he met a beauty, a beauty beyond compare he thought at that time. Except she was a monster in human form, a vampire, a creature that drinks blood and kills remorselessly. And when she saw the lad, she decided to make him her childe, another vampire." Angel paused, the pain of those years hanging heavy on his undead and yet still very important to him heart. "And that vampire surpassed any before him, becoming feared even amongst his own kind for his brutality, viciousness, and uncertain temper. For one hundred and fifty years, I butchered, maimed, and created chaos with a song in my heart and smile on my face." Angel shook his head. "Then I murdered the favoured daughter of a magically powerful tribe and was blessed\cursed with a soul, a conscience, and spent a hundred years in pain before deciding to fight evil, defending those I had once victimised."

The lady outlaw stared at him, face paling. Angel smiled thinly. He'd always been a conversation stopper.

* * *

Tla' Ra Swiftsword glanced around the wrecked bar, broken furniture and glass, and spilt blood covering the floor. "And you say it was a group of women who did this?"

The bartender cowered at his snarl then nodded. "Aye, well no. It was a group of two men and three women who did this, but the women were the ones who did the lion's share of the fighting."

"Excellent," Tla' Ra smirked as he looked towards his waiting men. "The Slayers are near, all we have to do is find and capture them."

* * *

Pello Quaero stiffened as his chief torturer strode out, blood staining the man's aprons and hands. "Well?" he snapped, as the leader of The Truth-Givers' enforcement wing he wasn't used to being kept waiting.

"It took time," the clearly mad 'Cleanser' giggled. "But they broke. It was the Slayer and her companions, they were some of the bounty hunters who'd been sent to apprehend her."

"The Emperor most holy blesses us indeed," he smiled. The 'Faith' harlot would be his Master's and soon, her own actions having cleared the only obstacle in the way of his possession. And any riches he wished for his, for delivering the prize most valued to him.


	18. Chapter 18

**FIC: Chosen Twelve (18/?)**

Angel looked around the Highlands. It was a bleak place, rolling moors interspersed with wild-treed copses under a grey, stormy sky. Yet for all that it made his heart sing and a rare smile tug at his lips.

It had been a long time since he'd been somewhere that so reminded him of 18th century Ireland.

"The place is wet. Wet and cold." Angel shot his son an irritated glance. "What that educated nose and you hadn't noticed?"

Angel shook his head. "I suppose you'd be happier if it was all beaches and bikinis?"

"Depends who's wearing the bikinis, if it's you not so much." Connor grinned. "Faith on the other hand."

"Behave," Angel reproved even as he found himself returning his son's smirk with one of his own.

"A group approach from the north," Illyria coolly reported. "Perhaps they wish to make battle."

Angel smiled wryly. "Let's give them a chance before summarily decapitating them, shall we?"

"As you say vampire," the hell-goddess replied. "Their existence and yours is a matter of supreme indifference to me."

Yeah, Angel sighed inwardly, he could just feel the love. His eyebrow arched slightly as he felt the ground begin to tremble underneath them, whoever was approaching was coming in fast and in large numbers. Angel looked up towards the hill just ahead of them, dew gleaming on its lush grass. "Let's go up there and greet our hosts."

Angel's eyes widened as he cleared the hill to see what must have been close to three score riders heading towards them. It wasn't their number that surprised him, rather it was the men's sheer animal bulk, their brawny muscles were covered in bear or wolf cloaks, but nevertheless he guessed that every single one of them dwarfed him in height, the largest four or five of them close to seven foot in height and still hefty with it, massive hammers or battle-axes strapped to each and every one of their backs.

On the whole, not people a wise man would want angry with them.

Angel smiled devilishly. Ach, but his da had always said he wasn't wise at all. Digging his heels into his horse's flanks, he started down to greet the newcomers. "Stay here!" he roared at his companions.

* * *

Faith looked left and right as Jager Zware led her, Xan, and Bellator into a dark alleyway, something starting to tingle in the back of her neck. "Guys," she slowly said, "we got a proble-." Suddenly the fat bartender waddled to the left, diving into an until then unseen alcove, a door slamming shut behind him even as wood panels slid down in front and behind them, cutting their possible escape routes off.

"Shit," Faith started towards the alcove only to freeze when all the shutters on both sides of the alleyway's third-floor windows shot open and crossbows poked down at them.

Fuck, mice in a cheese trap had more options than they did right now.

"You've been gone a long time Bellator Proelium, some even thought you were dead, and then you return here claiming to be from the rebellion. I'm afraid we're going to have to be sceptical about this."

Faith turned her head and examined the man in the third floor window behind and to her left. He was short but bristling with energy, dark almost magnetic eyes, brown hair streaked on the edges with silver, and a craggy, lived-in face. "By the abyss Kamper Kraft," Bellator swore as he punched the air. "You know me, you know I'd never betray the Keenest Blade!"

"The same was said of Malus Bellum," Kraft sneered.

Bellator's cheeks mottled with rage. Faith idly wondered if he was just about to have a stroke. "Tell me you do not think to compare me to that ape!" Bellator roared.

"Bored now." Faith mumbled as she leapt at the wall in front of her, heels pounding into it three stones up. The air all around her whistled to bolts as she used the impetus to fly into a backwards somersault up and at the Keenest Blade's leader, slapping away any and all projectiles that got near her before reaching up and behind her, grabbing Kraft's tunic and yanking the stunned soldier out of the window. "Quit struggling," she muttered as she ducked an elbow, "you've pulled." Upon landing, she yanked the soldier in front of her, guarding from any more bolts.

"My men can still shoot your companions," the soldier commented when he realised he couldn't get loose from her arm around the neck, his right arm twisted up his back.

Faith had to give him props for his even tone in nothing else. "Yeah, but then I'll snap your fuckin' neck and start on theirs, and this is why Bellator's here. 'Cause he believes that with my people helping you, your rebellion has a chance." She released her grip and shoved the warrior away from her. "But only if everyone pulls their weight." Faith stared challengingly at the rebel, leaving the next move firmly in his court.

"How did you," Kraft looked from the wall she'd leapt off against and then up at the window he'd be leaning out of, "do that?"

"Lil film called The Matrix-." Faith scowled as she snatched an arrow out of the air. "Damn it! I'm coming up there to rip someone's prick off if you don't stop firing them at me!"

"Cease fire!" Kraft roared. "We should go to our hideout and discuss our alliance."

"First smart thing you've said."

* * *

Wood's heart caught as he looked around the camp, the sea of tents and empty, desperate faces poignantly reminding him of refugee camps he'd seen on the news from places like Darfur and Sierra Leone. Then the sadness began to turn into something hard, bitter, a cold rage building inside him. He might not be able to solve the problems of the Sudan and Sierra Leone, but these people he could help.

"This is a grim place," Groo muttered beside him, the hybrid unconsciously echoing his own thoughts.

"That it is," Wood nodded.

"Duka says there are several of these camps, filled with those who do not agree with the Emir's edicts or blame him for the fall of Shem," Groo continued. "A fertile ground from which to draw our recruits."

"Yeah," Wood suddenly scowled before turning towards the tent behind them, "but it's not enough."

* * *

Mate Dane's eyes narrowed as a rider thundered down the hill to meet them, surprised at the man's daring. The stranger was tall for non-Highlander, with a decent build for someone not of his people, strangely styled black hair, soulful dark eyes that contrasted with his pale skin, and a square jaw. Dane knew from the way the man carried himself he was a warrior, but to approach over fifty Highlanders took either bravery or insanity, maybe even a goodly helping of both. "Quinlan," he glanced at his second, "ride with me." He looked towards the rest of his troops. "Only follow if the riders at the top of the hill make a move down here."

"Greetings," the stranger began.

"You take a chance," Mate interrupted with a growl, "coming to our lands. Strangers are not welcome here and will be dealt with summarily."

"That's not what I've heard," the handsome stranger replied, "I half expected to be met by the Purge."

Quinlan Trayn bristled beside him. "Allow me to strike him down for his impudence!"

The handsome stranger grinned. "Son, don't hunt what you can't kill." The mystery man looked towards him. "Are you Mate Dane?" After a second he nodded, suspicious eyes still intent on the mystery man. "I'm Angel," 'Angel' ignored Trayn's snort, "we're here to ask your help fighting the emperor."

"Help?" Dane shook his head. "Help against the emperor? We don't need anyone's help."

"Yes because you're so free aren't you?" Angel shook his head. "We travelled the Border-Lands to meet you and I'm not going back without your men-."

"You presume much!" Trayn barked.

"Hush," Dane raised his hand. "You travelled the Border-Lands in such small numbers? How did you manage that?"

"The Ferals?" Angel shook his head. "There's more fearsome creatures."

"Such as?" Trayn challenged.

Angel flashed a hard smile. "Me for one."

Dane stared intently at the mystifying warrior. "Very well, bring your companions down. We'll make for camp." He looked around. "Only hurry, we have to get out of here before the Purge come."

* * *

Kraft's eyes burnt into the back of the sultry brunette who'd so easily captured him as they rode to their camp outside the city. What manner of demon was she to move with such speed, to have such power in so slight a frame?

"Ha," Bellator rumbled a laugh beside him. "I'd stop looking at that lass in such a way. If she doesn't decapitate you, her feller will."

"No," Kraft shook his head irritably, "she's a beautiful doxy, but that's not my concern. What manner of demon is she? No woman or man could do what she did! Is she a conjuring of the Emperor's?"

"No," Bellator's eyes sobered. "'Tis a strange story, the strangest I've ever heard."

Kraft's mouth dropped open as he listened to Bellator talk, the old soldier's words drawing a picture of a fantastical world quite unlike the one they lived in. When the man finished speaking, he laughed. "Maybe with such warriors by our side we'll have a chance," he decided.

* * *

Jabari half-rose when the tent's entrance flapped open only to relax when he recognised the entrants as his new companions, then stiffened again as he noted the near-murderous look on Wood's face. "Friend Robin," he rumbled, "what ails you?"

"What ails me?" Wood shook his head, eyes hard. "Shouldn't your question be what ails the people in this camp? I've seen the latrine lines too close to where people live and eat, the ill people, the looks of desperation. Something needs to be done."

"I'm aware of this," Jabari said before glancing towards the trio of leaders sat with Duka, "that is what we're discussing here."

"The time for discussion is over," Wood replied. "We need action, fast action before more people die of starvation or disease."

"What do you suggest?" challenged Duka.

"We kill the Emir." The tent broke out into shocked talk, talk that Wood cut over. "You've got two choices, either take this camp and flee north, or we take the Emir down and take his entire army north, and give your people their homes back."

Jabari sighed. In his heart he'd known this was the only option, the Emir had never been one to listen to reason. "Very well, Duka, friend Robin, will you accompany me?"

* * *

Ka Tra looked up at a creak in the corridor outside his room, hand edging towards his sword lying on the bed beside him. Could this be the night that the invaders caught up with him?

He relaxed slightly when the door opened and a trio of his fellow Bladesmen strode in, each moving with the silken grace required of their order, each wearing their twin blades around their waist. "We have news, good news," greeted Kal Ra, his lean face shining with excitement, "word has reached us of an incident at House Flash-Dagger, a bar wrecked when Protectors attempted to accost some women."

Protectors. Ka Tra almost growled at the mention of this recent abomination. Before the invasion whatever its internal struggles, each house had managed itself seamlessly, ensuring that crime was kept to a minimum. But now, with the fall of their civilisation, crime was rife, gangs laughingly calling themselves 'Protectors' or 'Defenders' running extortion rackets, gambling dens, and brothels through many of the Houses.

Yes it would be funny if wasn't so tragic.

However galling the Protectors were though, he had more pressing matters. "Why is this important?"

Kla Ra smirked. "The reports say the group included two men with 'Death-Notices' on them, Parhean rebels." Kla Ra paused. "It's further rumoured the group are looking for alliances."

Ka Tra shook his head. "We're Ishanti, we stand alone."

"Then you'll die alone," he blinked as the seer limped in, his fellow Bladesmen respectfully parting before the old man. "The time of insularity is past, nations must stand together, fight together to be strong." The seer shook his head. "The great force for good I foretold? Some of their number travel with these rebels, they seek to aid should you only let them."

Ka Tra pursed his lips. "Where do the rumours say the group was heading?"

"To the west, towards House Stern-Shield," Ala Kra replied.

"Then I need you to gather your men and send them out to the other groups," Ka Tra decided. "Tell everyone to add for Stern-Shield, tell them to head in small groups and be unobtrusive. For ourselves we leave for their in the morning."

* * *

Pello Quaero stared around the wrecked inn, pleased that the appearance of his robed warriors had cowed the inn's inhabitants into a deathly silence. His questioning had revealed the female had passed through here and confirmed rumours of the girl's powers. Truly intriguing.

Pello savoured the terror on the inn-owner's face. "The girl had help here you say?"

The inn-owner nodded. "My bart-."

"This place has helped the enemies of the Emperor, our god made flesh," he intoned. "Burn this place down. Sentence is passed."

* * *

Willow felt her eyeballs and neck, but especially her eyeballs, ache as she stumbled back to the inn where she was staying, another fruitless lesson with Zauber Lerher over and done with. Tears of frustration burnt her eyes. It was so unfair, she'd spent so many years learning magic, and now she had to do it all over again, only faster than before so she could help her friends who so desperately needed. Even Giles was faring better in this new world than she was, slaying some sort of legendary assassin.

Not that she envied him or anything, she told herself as she turned a corner, her ankles starting to ache on the unused to cobbles, she just wished things could be easier. "By all the fires," trilled a high-pitched voice to her left. "You have the touch."

"I beg your pardon?" Willow turned to the left to see a grey-haired woman with bird-like limbs and crooked teeth staring intently at her.

The woman giggled. "I'm Ladrans Kuru and I have some knowledge of magic. Would you like to come in dear, perhaps we could talk?"

Willow nodded, strangely compelled. "Of course, I'd love to."


End file.
